


Between Grief and High Delight

by Val_Creative



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Action, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Falling In Love, Humor, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Partial Mind Control, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Season/Series 01, Serious Injuries, Suspense, Temporary Amnesia, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:00:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: Ash Lynx disappears from the streets of New York. In the following months, Dino Golzine’s experimentation with the final stage of B1 yields successful results. His son truly has no idea who he really is.
Relationships: Ash Lynx/Okumura Eiji
Comments: 121
Kudos: 122





	1. Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Before we get into everything, I wanna make clear:
> 
> **THERE WILL BE NO RAPE OR GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF CSA IN THIS FIC.**
> 
> No flashbacks. None of that. So please don’t worry about that. That’s not the focus.
> 
> I have been planning out this fic since S1 ended. I kinda left it alone until now and came back. I am so thrilled to be posting this, and yes, all of chapter titles including fic is taken from J.D. Salinger titles/works. Heh. Any of your thought/comments would be deeply appreciated. It’s gonna be a ride.

> 2017 — April 12th — 05:34:01 PM

Thunder rumbles on the horizon, and Ash finds himself letting his guard down.

He's been doing it more and more while living with Eiji.

Maybe it's a bad idea. A part of him thinks so. Ash has gotten as far as he has by never letting anyone know him.

But… Eiji's different.

He's easy to talk to. He's nothing like anyone Ash has ever known. Honest and gentle and kind. Smiles a lot. Eiji is one of the few guys Ash met that wants to be around Ash without something in return: money or protection or sex. None of it.

Ash tosses himself backwards in a chair, legs dangling over a padded, threadbare arm. His head slumps on the other arm.

"I-zu-mo… I-zu-mo…" he murmurs in repeat. Ash's forearm slings comfortably across his forehead. " _Eee-zuuuuuu-mohhh_ …"

His thumb scrolls down his phone-screen. Millions of gods exist in Japan according to Google and Eiji himself… Kamado-gami, the god of the stove… Ame-no-Uzume, the goddess of dawn… Izanami, the goddess of creation and death… Suijin, the god of water… Okami, the god of rain and snow… Tajimamori, the god of sweets… which Ash would never think to piss off…

Shorter's number flashes. Ash rolls his eyes, ttching and ignoring him. So… what's the god of longevity or wealth again…?

Instead of a number, Eiji's text message pops up.

 **BE HOME SOON** 😊

The corners of Ash's lips quirk up. He taps to reply.

 **HURRAY IT UP BEFORE IM AS OLD AS YOU** 💤💤😴

He snickers aloud and grins when Eiji sends back a playful insult in no time. Ash didn't bother with emojis before him. They seemed dumb. Pointless. Annoying as hell when Bones would thumbs up everything or Shorter flooded his texts in red hearts.

Ash's nostrils flare. What is…?

"Shit!" Ash yells, frantic and jerking upright. The pan on the stove reeks of leftover ground beef blackening. He slams his phone onto the countertop, disregarding it, and turns off the heat. "Shit, _shit! OW!"_ Ash burns his fingertips grasping at the metal handle. He uses the edge of his t-shirt, shielding his hand as best he can and nudging the pan away from the red-hot burner.

His phone vibrates, signaling a call. Ash glimpses at Shorter's number and, once again, ignores it.

There's enough pale-colored smoke to make Ash cough and wave his hand in front of his face. He goes for too-small apartment window, pushing the top glass-pane open as far as it can go. Several inches. Several inches never enough to cool them down.

Rain patters harshly onto the fire escape outside the window. Traffic roars below. Lightning illuminates the skyscrapers.

Ash wipes off his neck, grimacing at the slick feeling of sweat. It's still hot.

His phone keeps going off.

He marches back over to the stove, inspecting the pan and grabbing the dishrag Eiji insisted they buy. Ugly yellow-and-white striped. Ash lifts the pan, digging off a layer of crusty, nasty-bubbling grease with his spatula and looking at his phone vibrating. It's the ninth time.

Thunder booms. Ash growls out, flinging the dishrag roughly and answering his phone.

 _"WHAT?"_ he hisses.

"The hell, man?!" On the other end, Shorter complains in a hushed voice. Ash can hear the tinkling of the Chang Dai restaurant's bell at their front entrance and Nadia shouting out orders to the cooks. "Learn to pick up your damn phone! Geez!"

"I'm in the middle of something important," Ash snaps. "This better be good, Shorter."

"You're kidding… tell me you're kidding! There's nothing remotely _good_ about Golzine coming for your ass!"

Ash tucks his phone between his left ear and his shoulder. "If that child-selling fuck would stop interfering and ordering my men to do shit I didn't order them to do… more of them wouldn't end up rotting in the back of an alley gutter," he monotones.

Shorter vents out a long, exasperated noise. "Ash, seriously—"

"Yeah, I know," Ash interrupts, turning grim. "I know he's after something. I'm working on it." He peeks through the fogged lid of the crockpot nearby. Nothing is burning for dinner at least. "Why do you think I planted the keylogger at his dump yesterday?"

A pause.

"Did you have to—?"

"No. Not this time. I didn't let him touch me." Ash can sense Shorter's growing concern. He knows most of Ash's shit. And it's _A LOT_ of shit. "Dino wasn't interested." That alone was concerning to him. Ash has been waiting, hoping, praying, for the day where he wasn't treated like a sex toy — and as soon as Dino does just that, Ash doesn't trust any- _FUCKING_ -thing that's happening.

(Dino Golzine, a king and a god in his own mind, wasn't the type of sleazebag who entertained having _a change of heart_.)

"He hasn't been interested in a while," Ash says curtly, rubbing behind his socked ankle with a big toe. "Fuck if I know. Saves me the trouble of dealing with it. Dino's gonna find the riskware soon or later and I wanna export as much as there is."

"That's good and all, Ash, but did you figure out—?"

Eiji's voice drifts under the apartment door. Ash tunes out Shorter, hearing his friend coming up and talking to a neighbor. Must be the friendly senior one who invited them to a poker game with his buddies. He's a bit of a chatterbox. Mr. Stanley lived through the homophobic-driven AIDS scare in New York City and was diagnosed back then. He lost his partner in the 80s.

Ash tries to hold the pan again, finding it less hot and sniffs it. He cringes.

"Gotta go," Ash mutters hurriedly to Shorter. "We'll talk later."

He heads for the apartment window, sticking out the pan and flipping out the burnt mess. Hopefully nobody was sticking their head out their window on the floor downstairs. Their door bangs open. "Ash!" Eiji calls out. "Ash, I'm back!"

"In here!" Ash shouts, rushing to drop the pan onto a burner.

He pulls off his denim jacket, leaving him with only the loose, white tee, as Eiji walks into their kitchen. It's not much of a _kitchen_. One people can barely fit to cook while the other goes to the refrigerator. And the refrigerator door _barely opens_. There's no shelves in the cabinet, or little doors for the cabinet, but definitely a roach or two living in there. Completely rent-free.

Ash's expression brightens.

"Hell of a storm, huh," he says, observing as Eiji nods, shivering and rubbing his fingers together.

There's a glisten of rainwater in Eiji's dark curls. His jacket is sopping-wet.

"Yeah!" Eiji answers. "On my way out of the store, I saw there was an accident down the road with five or six cars. I think they're all okay though. People were getting out. I didn't see ambulances. But it's like the whole downtown area is getting backed up."

"Well, _you_ made it. Guess that counts as something." Ash comes over, gesturing for Eiji to set down the grocery bags. "C'mere."

Eiji seems pleasantly confused, but he does. Ash's hands peel off the jacket, carefully easing it off.

He moves from Eiji's back, leading him around, unbuttoning the equally soaked, mint-green overshirt. Eiji's dark tanktop appears fairly dry. Ash waits for the other man to remove the overshirt, and Ash's eyes catch sight over the bandages taped to Eiji's shoulder. His bullet wound.

Something heavy settles in his gut.

"Mm'fine," Eiji protests, noticing Ash's silence and where he gazes. "It doesn't hurt anymore. Don't worry about me."

"… You sure?"

Ash's thumb maps over the bandage-edge.

Eiji gives another firm nod, their eyes meeting and searching each other.

Pale yellow lashes flutter over Ash's green eyes. A much vibrant and clearer green than Eiji's button-up. He can't stop looking down at Eiji's mouth. A plump-pretty shape, full and rosy. Ash tries to refocus, clasping onto Eiji's hands and gathering them.

"Should be another hour and the food will be done." Ash murmurs this, warming the other man's chilly skin by puffing breathes on him and rubbing Eiji's hands softly against his. He raises them to his mouth. Ash's lips touch over Eiji's knuckles to his right hand, and he's trying to look cool and unmoved, but his pulse goes rapid-fire when Eiji smiles at him. His black eyes crinkle.

"Maybe I should be cooking instead," Eiji teases. Ash huffs out an amused sound, lowering their hands.

"Hell no. You probably would have made natto…"

He heads back for the crockpot to lower the heat, and then place Eiji's grocery bags onto the table. "Hey, it's good for you!" Eiji insists. Ash's face twists up comically in disgust. "And you can't live on mustard corn dogs… or whatever _that_ is…"

Eiji's forefinger jabs towards the pot.

"Sloppy Joes," Ash tells him matter-of-factly, picking up the fogged-up lid and stirring the meat with his red, plastic spatula. "You mix together ground beef, onion, garlic, chili powder, ketchup, green peppers, brown sugar, Worcestershire sauce…"

"You made the last one up," Eiji says, smiling widely again.

Ash grins. He borrowed most of the ingredients when Eiji volunteered to ask their neighbors. They like Eiji more. He doesn't come home with a gun tucked in his waistband or flecks of bright red blood on his collar. Ash doesn't care. They've only been here a week and will duck out of this hideout in another week so Alex and the rest of his gang can meet up in person.

He almost… doesn't want to leave. He feels good right now.

_Normal._

Like they're just two roommates living under the same roof, goofing off and doing laundry and arguing over what to watch on Ash's tablet.

Ash crashes hard on most nights, snoring and flopped out on Eiji. He's woken up with his face pressed into Eiji's stomach or chest before. Eiji doesn't say anything, fast asleep himself or deeply concentrating his phone sitting in his hand. One of his arms wrap loosely around Ash's shoulders. Eiji's steady breathing lulls Ash into a restful numbness.

He feels… _safe_ … around Eiji. Ash doesn't want that feeling to go away.

They've been naturally falling into something deeper and intimate. Holding hands, crowding hip-to-hip on a sofa or knee-to-knee on the subway. And when it's all quiet and lonesome for them, Ash touches his mouth against Eiji's jaw when they hug.

He doesn't wanna lose him…

"I know you have a sweet tooth so I got you some of these," Eiji comments, breaking Ash out of his thoughts. He stands next Ash, opening up a grocery bag further. Looks like a package of cookies. Molasses ginger? "I'm not sure if you'll like them, but…" Eiji trails off, smiling uncertainly and making a low, awkward noise when the other man determinedly stuffs two in his mouth.

The rest of the groceries are set aside. Ash leaves out the coleslaw and the two liters of lemon-lime soda. Room temperature.

Eiji supervises when Ash uses the slightly burnt and greasy pan for the frozen french fries. He babbles on about Ibe, switching on the radio until music drones on through the static. Ash recognizes the Frank Sinatra song, humming along a little.

"… _these little town blues…are melting away_ …" Ash steps away from the pan, clutching Eiji's right hand and swaying them. He mouths along, holding Eiji in close. Eiji hooks his arms to Ash's neck and laughs, their noses brushing. Ash sings a little louder, more exaggerated, "… _I'll make a brand new start of it…in old New York_ …" He rucks up Eiji's dark tank to his armpits for a moment, pawing him, grinning when Eiji's cheeks flush red. He wiggles out of Ash's hands, telling him he's burning the food.

The apartment door pounds with knocking. Ash swears and laughs, trying to save the fries while Eiji laughs with him.

Noises blur together, muffling, as the knocking gets louder.

_Muffled like submerging underwater, gulping, writhing to be free_   
_In a kaleidoscope of wavering colors_   
_"Would you—"_

"—stop," Aslan chokes, breathing hard and staring wide-eyed up at the darkened ceiling.

_Where?_   
_Where is he?_

He goes on his elbows, his vision bleary. Pale golden strands of hair stick dampened against Aslan's cheeks. It takes a moment to get his bearings, to calm himself after waking into a terrified state, but it's his room. It's always been his room.

Red damask wallpaper. Cherrywood panel-floors with several handknitted wool area rugs and runners in a dark, patterned red. Empty and bright red resin pot planters. A tablestand with a lamp and his glasses case and his armoire made of cherrywood. Aslan's sight lingers on the gigantic, crimson suede armchair. There's a painting or two hanging up with a white background and what appears to be a burgundy carnation done in acrylic streaked with gold. A full, crystalline decanter of expensive merlot.

_Was he dreaming just now?_

Aslan shuts his eyes, unable to grasp the lingering traces. It's like they've vanished, smoking apart and burning entirely down to cinders.

It feels wrong. Something's wrong.

Something's wrong, _wrong, WRONG_ and aching deep inside Aslan's sternum.

> 2018 — May 2nd — 06:40:12 PM

The knocking halts. Aslan can hear the exterior bedroom lock turning.

_Who was laughing a second ago?_

A torrent of molten white light streams in.

Aslan winces, bare-chested and seated on the edge of his mattress, raising a hand to cover his eyes. His father invites himself in, unsmiling and wiping his pallid, doughy hands with a handkerchief. Aslan's skull rings faintly. He breathes in an overwhelming fragrance of greenhouse orchids.

Dino Golzine steps into the darkness and approaches him, gazing down with a sneer.

"Are you ready to cooperate?"

He inhales sharply. Aslan's throat clenches in anticipation.

"Yes, sir."

*


	2. The Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still recovering from my head injury as I explained on Wednesday and I have Chapter 3 with lots of Asheiji🌈 so any feedback/encouragement would be appreciated right now. I'm putting a lot of time and thought and energy into this. Keyboard smashing... a string of emojis.... a reaction gif/picture copy and pasted... even "nice!" or "more!" I would love to hear.

> 2018 — May 2nd — 06:41:02 PM

"Good."

His father's voice rumbles like the thunderclap booming over their heads. Like an undercurrent of a storming tide.

"I know you think I'm treating you harshly by ordering you to rest. That's not my intention." Dino Golzine — "Papa" or "Papa Dino" to the men he hires — looks over an expressionless, bare-chested Aslan for a moment and sighs heavily. His eyes briefly close.

It goes quiet between them. Tension roils, flattening and heightening like a pulse.

Aslan's hands knuckle their grip on crimson silk sheets.

"We'll be late arriving to the opera house." Father then speaks up gruffly, reopening his eyes, "Have yourself presentable."

Nothing — nothing hangs in the air.

"Aslan?"

The breath feels caught in Aslan's throat. Sour-tight. Father's beady, hazel eyes narrow.

"Yess'sir," Aslan finally murmurs, keeping his eyes lowered.

Relief pools through him when this father nods, seemingly satisfied with this response. As soon as he's left, Aslan inspects the hallway light cascading into his room for any further movement and then flops backwards onto his pillows, groaning aloud. He slings his arm over his forehead, gazing into the darkness above illuminated in blinding lightning-flashes from his window.

The panic and sense of wrongness fades out. Aslan doesn't remember ever waking up and feeling it so strongly before.

It's been a whole week of this. Over and over again.

Nerves, he insists to himself. His nerves acting up. The entrance exams for Columbia University in the City of New York will open soon and Aslan has been preparing for two months in half-dread and half-exhilaration. He's letting it get to him. That's all.

That's why the epilepsy reared back up. That's why violent dreaming troubles him even if Aslan doesn't remember the details.

He groans once more, softly and with feeling, and rolls over for his prescription glasses. Aslan can barely see a thing without them. His jade-green eyes squint. One of his father's personal guards stomps by the open doorway, disregarding him.

(Dino Golzine is a very powerful man. Therefore… well, everyone wants to take that power. By force.)

Aslan pushes away his thoughts, climbing out of bed and yawning, heading for a shower.

It was definitely a seizure yesterday. Aslan lost consciousness for a moment, by himself, his left leg spasming uncontrollably and causing him to fall over with all of his weight. He came around, sitting up and leaning to a foyer-wall as if propped up.

Two of his father's men stood in front of him. One of them yelled into a phone in Russian and the other man — Leonard, unmistakably it was Leonard Miller with his golden-brown hair buzzed down and his tendency for wearing sunglasses indoors — yelled at the older, pinch-faced maid to _get her fuckin' ass out of the way_. She whimpered and fled, near tears.

Aslan felt bad for her on top of his nausea and confusion. How was Isabella supposed to know?

Father ordered them to carry a weakened Aslan to his bedroom and guard the outside door. They would allow in Father's physician who traveled in from the city and Father himself. Aslan's father watched over the examination, stone-silent and tapping his finger impatiently over his elbow, to which it was cheerfully declared by the too-smiley physician that Aslan was in good health.

After that, it was bed rest for hours. New medication to regulate any lingering symptoms for the next few days.

Pale gold hairs drip wet. Aslan pushes them back, turning off the sink and examining his reflection in the mirror. Every inch of the master bathroom immaculately cleaned. White as sin. He tugs off his fleecy, scarlet-colored pajama bottoms and underwear.

Aslan uncaps his medication bottle and shakes out one of the capsules into his palm. It's a reddish-orange. 250mg. He pinches the capsule between his finger and thumb to his other hand, squeezing a little on the coating of firmed gelatin. Aslan harrumphs and swallows it, pouring himself a glass of cool sink water and drinking it. He tilts his head, swallowing to ease his medication down his throat.

His chin slowly lowers.

Aslan's eyes wander to the ridges of scars along his entire chest and abdomen. Inflamed pink. Silvery. He notices the long scar that runs along his hip. One along his collarbone. More scars that are crisscossing or visibly sunken. Scars resembling holes.

_Where?_   
_Where is he?_

Aslan's fingers set down the glass and let go, quivering. He grits his teeth, holding his opposite hand sternly over his fingers.

*

Back in 1883, the first opera performed at the Metropolitan Opera House had been Faust.

That's the opera labeled for Aslan's ticket.

His father very rarely takes him into New York City. It's more of a privilege and a cautionary lesson than anything.

He warns Aslan to keep close to him or risk his own life. Gangs and hoodlums would take one look at Aslan's fair complexion and slender body… and they would _take_ Aslan away. Sell him to a human trafficking ring and disappear out of the country.

Torture him.

Eat him alive and _spit him back out_.

He is safest with him and with the men paid to protect his father and Aslan.

Despite all of the warnings from his childhood until now, Aslan has a strange fascination with the bright cold lights and shadows. They feel _comforting_ somehow. Aslan assumes he would easily lost in New York City, but a part of him swears it's not true.

Father loves his operas. He revisits the opportunity to watch "Prince Igor" and "Roméo et Juliette" and "Die Frau ohne Schatten" whenever the productions were in or near the city. Father often whisks Aslan off to see the ballet or concert venues. He teases that Aslan would be tied up and blinded and forced to go listen to the orchestra if he didn't agree. Aslan came anyway.

(Because what would it hurt?)

*

The Metropolitan Opera House crowds with elegantly dressed figures. Every railing is burnished gold, and every carpet under their feet is as luxurious and red as Aslan's bedroom. The winding staircases lead up to the more expensive suites and balconies. They await for seating earlier before the ones dressed more plainly and with tickets that cost less.

Aslan's father chooses upon a single breasted tux with onyx-stud cuff-links and a black bow tie. The black-dyed cummerbund stretches to accommodate the girth of his round stomach. His pleated dress shirt and white evening scarf freshly pressed.

He's allowed Aslan to pick his own tuxedo but insisted they both wear polished, black calfskin shoes.

Aslan decided on a black, skinny tie with a narrow silver tie bar hanging over a solid white dress shirt. A velvet-soft black suit with notched lapels. Father clipped one of the fully bloomed red roses from a vase, pinning it smugly onto Aslan's lapel.

"So they know who you are," he whispered to Aslan. " _Better_ than any of them. The pinnacle of youth and grandeur."

The sparkler-like chandeliers flicker off and on as the rainstorm intensifies. Aslan can hear the winds howling from outside.

"Oho, how dreadful if they cancel—"

"Don't be such a goose—"

" _Nonsense_ —"

"My, my," comes a new, raspy voice. Among the rich and esteemed onlookers, a woman in a tiger fur coat approaches Father, smiling so widely Aslan glimpses nicotine-yellow in her teeth. "Your son grows more handsome every time I see him, Monsieur."

Aslan catches onto the look from his father, smiling but in growing and obvious embarrassment.

"Thank you, Madame Dumont," he says, correcting his eyeglasses. "You look nice as well."

Madame Dumont titters, swiveling her head to reveal her diamonds. "Aren't they splendid, child?" she declares, preening. "My husband bribed the Countess of Thuringia for these earrings. She was far too ugly for them… isn't that a tragedy in itself…"

Aslan's gut fills with revulsion when Madame Dumont leans in, grasping his chin one-handed and examining him possessively.

"But you… yes, my darling child, _you_ would be best suited _in nothing else_ but emeralds and precious gems draped upon your person." Madame Dumont's silk-gloved finger nudges onto Aslan's bottom lip, dragging it down slightly. "Wouldn't you?"

He stumbles backwards, ducking his head and ignorant of the lustful gazes of another man and woman nearby.

"We're being seated," Father joins Aslan's side, touching his shoulder. "Do forgive me for the interruption."

"How ever did you raise such a shy little boy, Monsieur? Does he not wish to follow in your gracious footsteps? This kind of ill-suited behavior cannot be tolerated in upper class society, you know." Madame Dumont — with her real tiger fur and powder-thick age lines and diamonds flashing — seems overly disapproving but no less eager. "You simply must allow me to _break him in_."

"Perhaps another time, Madame." Aslan's father bends down and pecks her hand.

Aslan mutters an apology, hurried away and wincing internally about the lecture Father will give him. Sweat slicks the back of Aslan's neck. They've left her behind, ushered up another set of red-carpeted stairs and into their private balcony seats.

He composes himself, taking deep breathes and focusing on the auditorium below. So many people. No familiar faces.

Aslan's hands politely fold in his lap as he seats himself down. Father takes the other seat, three or four feet away, and orders for their balcony-curtain to be shut by an usher. The lights start dimming. Aslan tries to concentrate on Charles Gounod's "Faust" for an hour and a half, peering from the corners of his eyes to his father watching through a pair of ivory and gilded theater binoculars.

Poor eyesight runs rampant in their family, Aslan supposes. He prefers that Father's balding gene skips him.

Faust, a tenor, sings dramatically and furiously near-sobbing as Méphistophélès, a bass-baritone, circles him and mocks him. They traipse about in a landscape of flames and jewel-dark bedrock making up the opera house's main stage.

Aslan frowns incredulously.

What a _fool_ Faust is… with bloodied hands and a tattered soul… watching _naively_ as everything he loves dies in front of him…

*

Gutters bubble up with rainwater.

Aslan leaps off the high, concrete sidewalk on impulse, fighting back an amused laugh and landing with a noisy, wet splash into a puddle. Others around him laugh nervously and whisper. The insides of his dress shoes quickly fill with water.

The driver holding an umbrella over Aslan's head pales, gulping audibly.

It's storming like hell.

Father doesn't seem to notice the ends of Aslan's drenched trousers and his ruined, muddied shoes.

The air billowing inside Father's limousine feels dry and warm on the surface of Aslan's cheeks as he climbs in. They'll be heading home earlier than expected. Aslan can already sense it, his mood sinking. Dinner reservations at the _L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon_ would be cancelled.

The wheels roll. Aslan feels the limousine carrying them into traffic, and he gradually unbuttons his tuxedo-suit jacket.

Father's mouth presses to the corded, lavender-hued phone attached to the limousine's system. He airily laughs in the middle of his conversation and sips on a flute glass of _Krug Clos d'Ambonnay_. Aslan can tell by the light tang and aroma of violets.

He's offered a bit of champagne but refuses.

Aslan unpins the fresh red rose from his lapel. Its petals starting to dry out.

"You seem distracted," his father points out. He's watching Aslan vigilantly from the limousine-seat across from him, having already hung up the phone and his fingers laced together. One of Aslan's hands rub into his oiled, golden-gleaming hair.

"I don't feel well…"

"Have you taken the depakene as instructed?"

"Before we left."

"Very good," Father tells him dismissively, sipping more champagne. "I'll have a team of physicans examine you in the morning."

A voice in Aslan's mind wants to protest and Aslan silences it by going eerily silent himself. It's not his place to question his father. Even if he's wrong. Even if it doesn't _feel right_. What does Aslan know? He can't live on his own with his declining health.

"What happened to Peter Grant?"

The question flies out of Aslan's mouth suddenly. He realizes what he's done, Aslan's heart pounding.

"Hmm." Father sends him a deeply contemplative look. "Were you listening in just now?"

Aslan nods.

"He was a Senator. The next Presidential candidate for the White House," the other man informs Aslan. "He was killed last year in his hotel by his wife Laura Hollis and she killed herself when the police arrived… but you don't need to hearing this, Aslan."

"… I don't understand. Why would she do that?"

"Jealousy, I expect." Father's expression tightens. His eyes never leave Aslan's face. "Love makes us do horrific and wonderful things we never dreamed of being possible," he explains. "Some day you will understand this."

Aslan stares down glumly at the rose. His fingers curl.

_"I don't want to fall in love then…"_

Laughter booms over than the deafening thunder. "All the better for me," Father remarks, smirking.

Aslan cowers away, as if wildly struck, to the glittering raindrops of the limousine's window. His jade-green eyes trembling shut.

*

In the morning, Aslan remains on his own, walking the floors of his personal library.

He paces, huffing and massaging the bridge of his nose, and tries to shake off his drowsiness.

The examination by another set of physicians Aslan had never seen before was short-lived and impersonal and Aslan was encouraged to keep the same dosage for his prescription pills and to take them as needed. Medically speaking — for now it seems — he's _fine_.

Not many rooms in the Golzine mansion were open to Aslan. Or called his own.

Bodyguards or staff or Father himself were not permitted into Aslan's library without verbal permission from Aslan. He's grateful for this when the migraines frequently render him irritable. He needs time alone (and to study long hours for his exams).

His library has a single floor but with a wooden, rolling ladder adjustable for placement.

Three of the interior walls were shelves of literature novels and journals and historical diaries written by czars and queens and inventors and romantics living through times of war and peace. First editions and second editions. Nonfiction. Fiction. Cataloguing cards within metal drawers in case Aslan needs to remember a book misplaced. Two long reading desks carved out of maplewood. A collection of softly dimming lamps. Various world globes inserted with long, silver pins of destinations Aslan intends to visit when he's ready.

(He doesn't remember sticking _so many_ pins clustering over the islands of Japan.)

The wall facing out from the entrance-door as been removed and replaced with sheets of glass. A glasshouse, greenhouse design. No additional door or windows. The natural sunlight filters in without damaging Aslan's books, and has been made of tempered safety glass to minimize any breakage or injury for any known reason. He assumes bulletproof if need be.

Aslan browsed most of Virgina Woolf over Friday and Saturday, and now cradles Ernest Hemingway's "Islands in the Stream" in his left hand. The novel wasn't recommended to him but his eyes keep finding it on the topmost shelf on the northern wall.

Hudson, the main character, feels so absent into the second act of the novel following the death of his two youngest boys.

" _He could feel it all coming up_ …" Aslan murmurs out loud, frowning and itching his nose, "… _everything he had not thought about; all the grief he had put away and walled out and never even thought of on the trip nor all this morning_ …"

Aslan's hand presses over his chest, rubbing down.

Grief?

Echos of laughter course through him.

He dreamed. He did. Someone had been laughing uproariously and in a careless, smiling joy. Aslan doesn't remember what it had been about, but he felt _good_. Safe. So, so safe in the dark and emptiness. If only Aslan could wake omitting a howling fear.

It's a similar fear to him gazing in the mirror. All of his scars. Realizing they're truly _there_.

His father told Aslan that he was badly injured in an accident. Years ago. The same accident that took Aslan's mother away from both him and Aslan. Father refused to hang up her portraits and would not speak of her. Other injuries were from a sailing accident on Lake Titicaca while Aslan's father and himself were vacationing in Peru last year. Aslan has neither memory of this.

That shouldn't be. Unless he somehow hit his head. Father claims Aslan suffers trauma because of what's happened.

Is that why he feels odd around Father? Like he can't look at him for too long without feeling an immense sense of discomfort? Or _anger_? Like Aslan's skin wishes to crawl right off his bones? _Why_ is that? What does Aslan _blame_ him for?

_Grief…_

His father won't approve of him studying for university. Not somewhere with a Classical Literature program or Ancient Languages. But Columbia University boasts the lowest margin of undergrad acceptance rate in New York and Aslan wants — _needs_ — to know if he's capable.

If he can do great things that Father always tells him he can do.

Aslan needs _proof_.

He sighs and tosses aside "Islands In The Stream" onto a reading table.

In slow-mounting horror, Aslan watches his book fly into the air and collide into another item. A sculpture that Father gifted him for his sixteenth birthday — a gigantic, heavy-looking ivory elephant tusk. Aslan chokes out a breath, moving forward.

His clumsiness often gets him into trouble. He's unbalanced and too-slow of a runner.

Aslan's hand snatches onto the tusk mid-air before it shatters onto the hardwood. Bright green eyes widen.

_No…_

How did he do that?

When… _when_ could he do that?

Aslan gawks down at the tusk in his hand and then fumbles to right it, breathing hard. His neck and cheeks flushed-red. He scurries out of his library, nearly bumping into someone else. "Damn it," Aslan murmurs, his shoulders slumping.

"Papa wants you."

"Tell him I'll be there in a moment, Gregory."

The bodyguard doesn't step away. Aslan's brows furrow.

"I'm here to escort you."

Aslan glances down to the revolver strapped to Gregory's belt. Unlike him wearing a powder blue button-up and Aslan's favorite oversized, cream sweater, Gregory wears drab and dull colors. Unprofessional suits. He's allowed to. Father likes him best.

"Of course," Aslan says tonelessly, closing his library door behind him.

He's led by a blank-faced Gregory further into the mansion, eyeing the usually high amount of guards posted at every door. There's never this many unless someone is visiting Father for a meeting. A politician or an esteemed member of a rival syndicate to Aslan's father.

"Who is here?"

Gregory, of course, doesn't answer.

It's the study where Father greets their visitors. Aslan recognizes the lacquered mahogany door. He allows Gregory to knock for him, entering as ordered and bowing his head in acknowledgment. Father turns to him, smiling thoughtfully.

"Aslan, my boy."

He gestures towards the other man and Aslan has already noticed him on a chestnut-leather settee. He stands and waits for Aslan to join him. A young Chinese man in an ankle-length, indigo robe. Its satin shimmering.

With the long, black hair knotted by a garnet-red tassel, Aslan vaguely senses this is a man.

"This is my son Aslan Golzine."

The man bows his head, smiling. A coy, willful smile.

"Aslan, I would like you to meet Lee Yut-Lung. One of my associates."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Lee," Aslan speaks up, walking up and holding out his hand. He's sure to smile in a perfunctory manner as well. This feels like a test. He wouldn't put it past his father to do this right now. Aslan is expected to be like Dino Golzine — _the top dog of the Underworld, Corsican mafia boss_ — and someday handle the affairs and his legacy and name.

Yut-Lung giggles a little, covering his mouth with his sleeve. "Oh my," he whispers. "The pleasure is all mine."

Father claps his hands. "Aslan, play something for our guest."

"Le Nozze di Figaro or Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Father?"

"How about Le Preux, Op.17?" his father suggests, and Aslan internally grimaces. He still hasn't perfected that piece. Not while studying and prepping for hours and hours on exams and skipping on his individual lessons. This is _definitely_ a test.

Aslan looks away, continuing to smile and moving to the grand piano. He seats himself, positioning.

His fingers move gracefully and rapidly on the keys, but he's already struck a flat note or two. Aslan is sure Father heard it too. Yut-Lung wanders to him, humming deep in his throat. "Have we met somewhere before?" he questions Aslan.

The rise of interest doesn't deter Aslan's concentration.

"No," he replies, keeping his facial features vacant. "I'm afraid not."

It feels like a half-truth.

Half- _lie_.

Whatever it is… Aslan just cannot explain how Yut-Lung seems familiar.

*

By mercy's hand, he is finally dismissed. Aslan clenches his aching hands silently, exiting the study's door. Gregory remains inside, and the nearest guard is chatting away flirtatiously with a newer, younger maid. Aslan's eyes roll behind his glasses.

"Thoroughly _entertaining_ , to say the very least…" Yut-Lung's voice travels out into the corridor. Aslan hesitates.

"I'm glad you approve."

Father must be pouring his bottle of cognac and basking in the pride of his accomplishments and wealth. To own such a glorious home. Noble titles. Endless amounts of business and properties. To own a son who is pleasing to the eye and mind…

"What a terrible fate…" Yut-Lung says, his words leering. "…to exist as a lynx without his claws, don't you think?"

Aslan crinkles his nose.

_What?_

"You must be enjoying this."

"Thank you for allowing me this opportunity, Monsieur."

Aslan clenches both of his hands again, lingering in the corridor and staring down fixated at his palms. One of his fingertips traces over the network of scars ridging his milky white skin. A lynx…? What does any of that mean… …?

Something occurs to him.

He returns to his personal library, flipping on a lamp and rushing to a wall-stack of books, hopping onto his rolling ladder as the wood-frame squeaks. Aslan hangs over to the side precariously, grabbing onto a older, worn textbook of Ernest Hemingway short stories.

_Lynx._

Lynxes in fiction.

He slides down until Aslan's feet touch the floor.

No, it's a _leopard_. On the top of Mount Kilimanjaro, there's said to be the frozen and shriveled carcass of a leopard. No one knows why it's up there. It's likely that the poor leopard was hungry and confused in the snowstorm or bound up too high.

His tongue clucks slightly in disappointment.

He was wrong.

Aslan's book snaps shut.

*


	3. Blue Melody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE WORD COUNT ON THIS ONE IS HUGE. I AM EXCITED TO HEAR ANY REACTIONS TO THIS CHAPTER. Welcome back to everyone who has been reading and thank you to any new faces. Any thoughts/comments are so appreciated. 💙💛

> 2017 — June 6th — 07:00:51 PM

Ash's book falls open.

He's hunched over a low-level table and squinting through his reading glasses, tapping a pencil against the side of his mouth. His head has too many questions pestering him and not enough answers. Ash flips a page.

The book's cover has an aged, light green quality. A navy blue titling of **BRAIN FUNCTION AND PSYCHOTROPIC DRUGS** printed on the top.

Several photocopied essays and manuscripts and academic papers next to him. They're laid out on a gleaming oak tabletop and stapled together. Mostly about the long-term studies and general uses of psilocybin and lysergic acid diethylamide.

New York Public Library hasn't seen much activity towards its closing hour. Tourists have already left.

Only a couple of heads in the General Research Division of the Main Branch building — him included. Ash needs his time off the streets, reading for hours instead of prowling. He needs to contemplate something other than how to _survive_ another goddamn day as Boss.

It's familiar and calming to be sitting alone in a hard and individually numbered chair, his ass getting numb.

This is all he wants to see right now: Humongous stacks of reference books and publications stretching as far as Grand Central Station's terminal. Double columns of long, empty tables shining with brass lamps. Marble floors. Window arches and grandly tiered chandeliers. Moldings of cherubs and the heads of cherubs, vases of fruit, angelic nude women displayed with their wings out, foliate moldings and cleverly hidden ventilation shafts. Murals on the ceiling of delicate paint strokes resembling an endless, cloudy blue sky.

Anyone left in the Main Reading Room is the students from Marymount and LIM College. He can tell by the insignia-initials on their bags and hoodies. Ash peers over quietly to a couple sharing one of the wooden, numbered chairs.

They're also sharing a pair of earbuds and looking down to a phone with a marijuana-leaf case.

A girl with very dark black skin and a yellow crop top flips away her brilliant turquoise ringlets and embraces the other girl snug in her lap. Her girlfriend — the second girl — has a round, sunkissed face and nose-piercings. She wears jean overalls splattered noticeably with primer-paint.

After a moment, they perk up and wave whoever it is that answered their call. One of them begins signing quickly with their hands.

Ash's own phone vibrates and trills out a ring.

_UNKNOWN NUMBER_

He swears under his breath, having forgotten to put it on silent before coming into the library. Easiest and fastest way to stop this is to answer the call. Ash sweeps his thumb over the grey, smudged screen, holding it up to his ear. "Yeah?" he mutters.

"Papa wants you," comes Gregory's monotonous voice. That's all he says.

A man of truly few brain cells.

"Fuck off," Ash says without feeling, hanging up.

He slams his phone onto the oak-table for good measure, and one of the girls sends Ash a dirty look without him knowing.

Rage courses through him, boiling-hot.

Ash calls back after a minute, waiting for the click.

"No, you know what—give him this message for me, _pretty please_?" Ash uses his high, saccharine-sweet voice.

(The one for creepy child-loving motherfuckers who preyed on him and abused him while Ash imagined killing them in their sleep.)

"Dino can take his fancy little walking stick and shove it right where the sun don't shine… 'cause it sure isn't getting any love these days. Trust me." Ash's voice switches back to emotionless. "And then, Gregory… you can fuck all the way off."

Ash curls his lip, hanging up one more time and slamming his phone down.

Harder.

He would block the number but it's no use. Dino would find a way around it. He's probably already hacked into Ash and Eiji's phones and recorded locations and all of the messages. It's nothing special. A plain black smartphone with visible cracks from getting dropped or hit while Ash has been fighting with insubordinate gang members. Frederick Arthur _wannabes_.

He can't get a break.

His jaw is starting to heal… and the bruised ribs on Ash's upper right side… and his dislocated knee. The crease of Ash's bottom lip has darkly wired stitches so talking hurts on all fronts. But, well, Ash puts up with it. There's nothing else to do.

"Who was that?" Eiji asks as loud as Ash had been, however more upbeat. He carries a tall heap of books in his arms.

One of the librarians shush them, her beaded, tortoiseshell eyeglasses quivering. Eiji winces apologetically, looking away and setting down his things. She's no more than a little old lady, hobbling by and pushing a oversized book cart.

Ash smirks, turning back to Eiji. "You carry those all by yourself?" he says lowly.

Eiji's face brightens.

"Remember—I was an athlete back home in Japan," Eiji whispers to him, sitting directly across from Ash and pretending to flex an arm, clasping his right hand over his muscles. At the clear and soft laugh leaving Ash, Eiji reddens.

Ash hasn't forgotten. Hell no.

Eiji flew like a bird through the air. His ripped, powder blue shirt fluttering. He was the very essence of determination and that was the moment that Ash knew Eiji was the bravest _sonuvabitch_ he's ever met. The dumbest and most impulsive too.

Ash's own cheeks feel warm on the surface despite the New York Public Library blasting their AC. He fans out his loose, dark tee.

Eiji starts to browse through the piles of books on Ash's library table, his mouth crooking in perplexity. Subjects like **METHODS IN MOLECULAR BIOLOGY** and **THE ETHNOBOTANY OF BRUGMANSIA** seem likely nonsensical to him.

"What do you need all of these for anyway, Ash?"

"Research." Ash says flatly.

"Researching what?" Eiji's curiosity heightens. He tilts his head and stretches his arms in front of him.

Ash snorts, yanking one of the staples out of a photocopy.

"Isn't it past your bedtime, kiddo?" he mumbles, not looking up.

"Ha, ha…" Eiji makes a face, batting away the staple Ash flicks at him. His hands pull back, landing with a muffled thump on the back-cover of **COMPLETE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF GARDEN FLOWERS** and lace their fingers. "Come up with something else."

"Don't tempt me. I can multitask," Ash quips, grinning and staring over the rims of his glasses at the other man.

Eiji grins back.

Tan fingers idly shift through colorful pages. Ash finds his concentration drifting off to focus on Eiji's hands and shakes his head wildly, clearing his throat. "Wanna get something to eat?" he asks, tucking away his pair of reading glasses. "I'm starving."

"Sure," Eiji whispers. Cheerful as ever.

They get up, arranging the books neatly to be picked up and heading into the wide aisle.

Down the marble staircase, past the galleries and exhibitions rooms and Cullman Center, Ash feels Eiji's shoulder brushing occasionally against his.

He resists the urge to sling an arm around Eiji while they're walking the ground floor in Astor Hall. A janitor or two roams by. It's a lobby of paved, pillared stone and multiple archways of entrances and staircases with a low barrel vault-ceiling above them. Eiji glances nearby to a bust of John Merwen Carrère, walking on and saying nothing.

The cold rush of AC dwindles off into humidity as they exit towards Fifth Avenue.

Nightfall seems lacking in the ever-flashing traffic lights and the strong, electric glow of pole-lamps. Ash stands with Eiji on the marble-pavilion atop the front steps, exhaling and trying to work the nerve to say something when Eiji's phone buzzes.

And buzzes.

_And keeps buzzing._

Ash's expression fades from thoughtful to deeply irritated.

"Jesus christ—" he grumbles.

"Hello?" Eiji says, finally answering. He listens. "Mmhm, Ash is here. We're at the public library—I'll tell him—okay, _mhm_ —" Ash motions violently when Eiji's eyes fall on him. "Alex says he can't reach you. Something your phone being dead or turned off."

Ash smacks his own face. Dammit. He sighs, giving up.

"Say goodnight, Eiji."

"Hm?" Eiji lets out a puzzled noise, letting Ash gently ease the phone out of his hand.

Ash takes out his own phone, removing the batteries and memory cards. He shatters apart everything possible, ripping apart the phone-circuits and grinding them under his heel. "Ash!" Eiji yells, gaping when he chucks the reminder of their devices into an alcove, shattering them further.

"We're getting tracked," Ash informs him. "Don't worry. I'll get a new phone and number for you and me. Ibe will understand."

"You could have said that first—" Eiji gives him a look, but nowhere near mad. It's pretty adorable even. Ash nudges the back of Eiji's shoulder, smiling and leading him. He slips an arm comfortably to Eiji's neck when they reach the bottom of the staircase.

At least they'll get some privacy now.

Ash catches Eiji turning back wistfully to the library. His eyes land on the twin, bright white spotlights and rainbow flags. Oh, right. Ash nearly forgot what happens in June. Every corner of New York will be strewn in more and more rainbows soon.

"What?" he questions, examining Eiji closely.

Eiji's face scrunches. "Nothing."

Ash digs out his ear canal with a pinky. "You're a crap liar, you know that," he remarks. One of Ash's fingers flicks a bit of nothingness into the air as they keep walking down Fifth Avenue at their own pace. "Stick with what you're good at."

"What am I good at?" Eiji asks, bemused but smiling in amusement.

"Getting me into trouble."

"Says the youngest and most successful gang leader in New York City."

Ash lowers his arm from Eiji's neck, patting the other man's shoulder. His hands shrug into his jean pockets. "Stick with what you're good at," Ash repeats with a touch of cockiness, leaning briefly into Eiji who smiles again before retreating.

*

The intersection of Fifth Avenue and West Forty-Second street overflows with people and cars.

Him and Eiji turn left, making their way over by Bryant Park Station and the public restrooms. While in the crowd, and getting nearby Joe & The Juice shop, Ash gets a sense of _wrongness_ and braces himself. Eyes purposely on him. He doesn't like it.

Not coming from the crowd itself, but someone — this is _someone_ who knows how to hide and has decided it's not important.

Ash pulls out a fistful of cash, shoving it jerkily into Eiji's hands.

"Grab us some turkey sandwiches and cold brew over here," he declares, keeping his tone lighthearted and unrevealing. "No rye bread. No spinach. Order for avocado spread and pesto." Eiji blinks, and Ash nods once or twice. "Go. I'll be here."

For emphasis, Ash strolls up to the vendor's stand and opens a newspaper, displaying it to Eiji.

The vendor herself is an older white woman with ratty, bleached-out dreadlocks. She makes an abrupt, surly noise, narrowing her eyes at him. Ash sets back down the newspaper like a peace offering and instead pays for a stick of cinnamon-flavored gum.

Eiji looks over him doubtfully. "You're not going to run off…?"

"Cross my heart." Ash mocks an X cross over his heart, pressing his index fingers in front of his mouth. He separates them, popping his lips like blowing a kiss. Eiji sends him another doubtful smile, but chuckles and goes across the street anyway.

He's safer away from Ash right now.

Ash cracks his neck, unwrapping his cinnamon gum from the foil. He lets it melt on his tongue, facing around to Yut-Lung.

"I've come unarmed, Ash Lynx."

"Doubt it," Ash retorts, eyeing him. Yut-Lung has what looks like traditional Chinese slippers and a long, suede coat. It's damn too hot in summer. The anesthetic needles expose from Yut-Lung's silky black hair, held in the other man's fingers.

"Case in point."

Yut-Lung snickers lightly, placing them back into his hair.

"There will be no need for these," he replies to Ash.

Ash flashes a menacing, toothy grin.

"You're shit in a _real_ fight, little girl…" he mutters. The gum against Ash's teeth snaps. He's half-hoping it'll piss off Yut-Lung but to no avail. Ash blows a pale red bubble, going silent and then popping it audibly with the tip of his tongue. "Maybe you should pull them back out before it's too late…" Ash speaks up, obviously taunting him.

"If I wanted you dead or harmed, I would have made it so." Yut-Lung gestures elegantly with one hand as an ivory-white limousine rolls up in the shadows. Three of Yut-Lung's security climb out of the limo-doors. "We can speak privately if you wish."

"No way. I know you got it out for Eiji."

At the mention of Eiji Okumura, Yut-Lung's face goes rigid. He puffs up.

"You and Blanca…" Ash glowers and steps forward, his teeth clenching. "I'm gonna kill you for what you did for him."

"Then kill me," Yut-Lung says unimpressed.

If this is calling him out on a bluff, it was a _stupid fucking thing_ to do.

Ash reacts in lightning-quickness, grabbing him and switching them around. He presses his retractable blade against Yut-Lung's nape. One little button-press and the knife will jut out, sinking and splitting apart nerves Ash assumes Yut-Lung is gonna _need_.

The security men lunge towards the sidewalk.

Yut-Lung halts them with a slight hand wave.

It's a crowded area with people walking around them and laughing and chatting. Even the vendor hasn't noticed them, smoking her cigarette.

"Why shouldn't I?"

"You need information on the Monsieur and what he's planning," Yut-Lung explains coolly. "I'm willing to trade it."

_"No."_

Ash's breath, soft and vicious, gusts over Yut-Lung's earlobe.

"Quit being so stubborn," Yut-Lung insists, nearly snapping at him. "You're playing a dangerous game against him. A game you cannot win." Ash can feel him tensing, but doesn't lower his blade. "I'm trying to help you, Ash Lynx."

"The _HELL_ you are," Ash says bitterly. "You're trying to help _YOU_."

He can already see the close-lipped smile on Yut-Lung's expression. Whatever this is… it's been orchestrated to give Yut-Lung the advantage. Probably against both him and Dino. Ash doesn't have the patience for this bullshit. Eiji will be back any second now. On top of it, there's _more_ than just them and Yut-Lung's security. Ash's nostrils flare. He can smell the mildew of Hudson River. And orchids. Real greenhouse orchids.

Bright green eyes widen for a split-second.

"Stay down," Ash murmurs to Yut-Lung, pushing his hand roughly on top of the other man's head. Getting him out of the way.

Yut-Lung squawks, flailing.

It's an older guy in an all-white hoodie lunging at him and Yut-Lung. Ash expertly twists himself, raising a leg high and kicking them right in the solar plexus. Their switchblade clatters to the ground. Ash hears another two guys roaring behind him.

He waits until the last instant to turn, elbowing and disarming the one with a metal pipe. Knocking the air out of him.

Ash throws him forward, hopping on his shoulder as the gasping man goes down flat and using the momentum to kick into the face of another hoodlum. A guy with a thin, black mustache. He reels, screaming in pain from his broken nose and teeth.

The all-white hoodie guy jumps up, lunging for only Ash this time.

Ash pants, dodging but narrowly getting slashed across the ribs. He growl-whines at the explosion of pain, blocking a jab with his forearm and feeling it _again_. Fresh red blood drips down Ash's pale skin. Ash's rage intensifies.

He spits out his drool-wet cinnamon gum into his attacker's face.

The guy flinches, and Ash uses the opportunity to crash his knee into his stomach and get him into a headlock until he passes out. It feels like _forever_. Ash kneels down with his unconscious body, grunting and heaving for air. He notices the tattoo on the inside of a wrist.

"Pull up his sleeve," Ash barks to Yut-Lung who manages to subdue the other two with his needle before they recover. Yut-Lung frowns but does so. It's the same red-inked tattoo on their wrists despite glancing at them in poor lighting. "… What the hell is it?"

"That is what I have come to warn you about."

"Friends of yours?" Ash mutters.

He's sweating through his tee and lightheaded. Blood leaks freely from the wound on his arm. Ash growls, recoiling when Yut-Lung reaches for it.

"Don't—" he snarls. "Don't ever—you get the hell away from me—"

There's a look of concern and disapproval on Yut-Lung. He lifts his chin, huffing, knocking into Ash's side.

Ash groans, shivering and clutching his ribs.

_Burning hot._

_Wet._

That's the sensations he feels against his palm.

Yut-Lung retreats into his limousine and gets driven away.

There's three random assholes lying around him. Some bystanders gawk from opposite ends of the sidewalk. One of them runs off after Ash makes eye-contact. The vendor has shut the rolled down, metal-visor cage to her stand, hiding herself.

"Ash!" Eiji sprints to him, yelling and dodging traffic. Both of the coffee cups and food abandoned. Eiji's corduroy, colorblock shirt flaps in the wind. Blue-green-yellow-crimson against neon lights. Ash's eyes unfocus. "Ash! Ash, _Ash_!"

Eiji slows down, long enough to avoid a collision when he hugs Ash.

Ash hugs him back fiercely, enveloped in him.

God— _thank you, God_. Ash's eyelashes flutter shut. _Thank you for sparing Eiji_ —

"What happened?" Eiji babbles. "Talk to me, Ash."

"S'alright, Eiji…"

Ash pulls away, dull-eyed and smiling fondly to him. He holds Eiji's cheek tenderly. Eiji notices the blood dampening Ash's tee and on Eiji's own shirt. Dark red fluid glistens on Eiji's flesh. Ash gazes down at his bloodied hand and fingers as if confounded.

"Ss'alright… g'nna sit down…" Ash murmurs, slumping from the loss of adrenaline.

_"ASH!"_

Eiji holds him up, trying to keep them standing by positioning an arm under Ash and leaning to a brick wall.

(They can't get a break…)

*

Thankfully… nobody bothers them going up the condo's elevators.

Ash specifically paid with Dino's money for these rooms on Fifty Ninth Avenue and across the Corsian building. It's well-lit and fancy and vaguely reminds Ash of when he was forced to live over at the Golzine mansion. Blanca interrupted the peace for a short while. He's not worried about an assassination attempt on Eiji's life again but it's never one hundred percent.

He sits in the dimmed lighting of the hallway, and in the gleam of fluorescent bathroom bulbs through an opened door. Eiji already pushed together two beds, sitting with him, treating Ash's injuries. He swabs and soaks up the blood with gauze.

" _Hey_!" Ash hisses, lurching away from Eiji's cotton ball of antiseptic. His ribs already cleaned and bandaged. "Watch it!"

Eiji grimaces in sympathy. "Did it hurt…?"

"Sheesh… would it kill ya to be more careful with the injured person?"

The other man bursts out laughing, _pffting!_ and motioning for Ash's forearm. Ash pouts. He obeys Eiji tentatively, cautiously, letting himself be examined further and bandaged up. "Of course, Your Highness," Eiji says curtly. "Whatever you say."

Both of them laugh. Ash hisses more loudly, regretting it and clapping a hand to his ribs.

He lets Eiji finish up on his arm.

The low thrum of the AC rattles on and its slow, steady hiss.

Eiji's face strains and looks heavenly in the low glow and Ash feels mesmerized in place. "Please be more careful," Eiji mumbles, his head lowered. The space connecting them seems to quiver along with Eiji's voice. "I can't lose you, Ash… I can't…"

"Eiji," Ash leans in, whispering.

He cradles the side of Eiji's face again but leaving no blood this time. His tan skin scrubbed raw.

Their faces gravitate, and their noses and mouths hover each other.

"Don't…" Ash reassures him, watching Eiji's black eyes moisten. Ash's thumb sweeps over his cheekbone, dabbing off the line of moisture. "Don't look at me like that… we're gonna be okay… _it'll be okay_ …"

He repeats it and repeats it like a scripture, like Eiji contains his prayers and hopes and the divinity of the universe. Eiji's own hands smush against Ash's cheeks, framing him, grasping him and pulling Ash even more tighter in.

Ash breathes raggedly against him when Eiji murmurs his name. His chapped lips press to Eiji and suck in his air.

Eiji's so… soft… warm… _incredible_ …

Ash's wire-stitches rub over Eiji's skin. Ash feels Eiji kiss him, clumsy and innocent, their lips opening slightly. God, Ash would love to yank off Eiji's pink sweatshirt and feel every part of him warmer than his mouth… if Eiji wanted that…

Eiji laughs breathlessly when Ash grins and nuzzles his nose to Eiji's, cutting off the kiss.

It's their first one, isn't it?…

(Not counting the prison. Ash still feels bad for _stealing_ Eiji's first kiss of his life. Especially when it was for dishonest reasons.)

Ash feels… different _._

He hadn't notice at first. It's Eiji's warmth and goodness and it's changing Ash.

Ash curls up in Eiji's lap, burying himself into Eiji's stomach and listening to the small, surprised noise out of his friend. Friend… lover… Ash doesn't know. He just wants Eiji. It doesn't matter. Eiji says he can't lose Ash and Ash can't lose him either. Ash would lose himself too.

Eiji bends over, tucking a dark curl over his own ear and pushing his smiling mouth to Ash's jaw.

Tears swim in Ash's eyes.

He's…

_Drowning open-mouthed, choking and coughing for air, and he's here_   
_Held down in their hands and thrashing and screaming_   
_"Would you—"_

"—listen," Aslan mutters this as he wakes up, drooling open-mouthed. His heart races.

He calms himself by breathing in and out as slow as possible.

It's the music room. Expansive and carpeted in pale, creamy gold. On the far end, a pedal harp with a natural wood finish and a cello tucked against its stand. The curtains draping each window a pearlescent green similiar to Aslan's eyes.

Two portraits hang — one above the fireplace and the other near the door.

One of Father, presenting himself in a lordly manner in his magnificent, rich red robe. And the other portrait of Father as a young boy with Grandmother and Grandfather. They pose together as stiff as boards and all gaze out with their hazel eyes and pallid, lifeless expressions.

Was…?

Aslan uncurls himself from a decorative chaise, tufted and upholstered in pine wood. He discovers his arms hugging around a sky blue-and-pink floral pillow. His hair ruffled. Eyes half-mast. Aslan wipes off his mouth and feels around for his eyeglasses.

> 2018 — May 12th — 08:05:00 AM

His dreams are getting clearer. Like fragments of glass held in the sunlight.

_Purple mohawk… a smiling and dark brown face… the man in a wheelchair… two silhouettes fighting in a hurtling subway shrouded in an eerie green luminescence… himself bleeding and wielding a knife… chasing someone into abyssal-darkness…_

He hasn't told anyone. Not even Dr. Alexis during the therapy sessions.

_Eiji…_

Aslan never dreamed of an Eiji before. He doesn't know anyone called that. Aslan only knows Eiji's name and his features in dimmed lighting… his unruly, bushy eyebrows… his swollen-hot lips… his cheeks and how they pinken and dimple when he smiles…

He's pretty… so… _good_. Eiji has to be.

Aslan felt safe with him.

Forlorn emotion hits him. He's in love with a man that probably isn't even _real_.

Aslan pulls his legs to himself, setting his chin on the pillow's edge and clutching harder. Oh well. At least it's good dreams happening. He falls sideways onto the cushions, skewing his glasses on his face and letting out a dreamy, delighted hum.

*

> 2018 — May 12th — 09:20:20 PM

_L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon_ accepts a new dinner reservation.

Normally they would refuse and blacklist anyone who dared to insult the establishment, but Aslan's father befriended the owner who comes to Club Cod — Dino Golzine's famously exclusive and mysterious restaurant — on late evenings during Saturday.

"Make sure you understand the names of your rivals and your enemies," his father advises him. "And their weaknesses."

If someone can afford a reservation, it's namely to the signature counter facing seats towards an open kitchen.

But the private dining rooms for those like Father and his guests were tailored for service akin to royalty. They can smoke and drink freely. Aslan's father spends a majority of the evening with a cigar between his lips, guffawing and slapping the back of who Aslan assumes is the pasty-faced Republican senator. He's been invited to the Golzine mansion for a night or two.

They've all donned black ties and dinner jackets and finely stitched overcoats. Ash with his pale gold hair trimmed and combed back in expensive, sweet-smelling gel. His left ear pierced with a four hundred thousand dollar jade earring.

He asked where the other earring was. Father went hollow-eyed, staring at him for so long that Aslan squirmed nervously.

_I lost it some time ago._

His newly pierced earlobe burns. Hours later. Aslan wonders if he's having an allergic reaction.

He stretches up a finger to brush it when someone else's forefinger affectionately touches and inspects his jade earring instead. Aslan whips his head quickly around to a man seated beside him in Madame Dumont's chair. She never did arrive to this dinner.

"Hello," the man greets him as if nothing just happened. Aslan gazes over a facial scar. "I don't believe we have been introduced."

"I'm Aslan."

He presents out a hand. The man takes Aslan's hand, gripping firmly and placing his opposite hand over theirs. As if they were very old friends. Aslan resists the urge to pull away hastily, not understanding the bout of nausea stirring inside him.

"Monsieur Golzine's son?" Narrow eyes peer over Aslan with intrigue. "You must take after your mother. My name is Eduardo."

"Thank you for joining us this evening."

The occupants of their table are boisterous and loud and Aslan has a hard time hearing his deliberately soft voice.

"Believe me… I am quite honored," Eduardo tells him, stroking a thumb over the back of Aslan's hand. There's something _dead_ in those narrowed, hazel eyes. Aslan finally slips away from him, biting down a grimace and struggling to remain neutral.

 _"ASLAN!"_ Father yells out to him, slurring and already turning purple from the excessive consumption of alcohol. He slams a fist down, rattling the utensils. "Did you hear me, boy? Or do you need to be _BENT OVER MY KNEE_ —"

A fit of nonsensical laughter erupts from the guests. All but Eduardo who observes politely.

The Republican senator hiccups and pats his chest, swallowing water. The rest of them — two women and three men — Aslan recognizes from other formal venues and banquets in the past. They owned finances to prominent guilds and multinationals capitalized by Underworld ties as well as distributions of medical narcotics to sellers and illegal weapons facilities.

"Forgive me."

Aslan gazes sullenly over the plates of black truffle and grilled Mediterranean octopus. Foie gras. Rabbit loin stuffed with herbs. It doesn't seem right. How much of this money spent on wasted food could have helped the poor and hungry?

"You're eighteen, my son. No longer a child." His father holds up high his glass of sherry, and all of the other adults follow his example. "It's time for you to learn what we know and how to succeed in life. I shall groom you into my perfect successor. Make no mistake of this, Aslan."

The guests applaud and clink their drinks in celebration. Eduardo clinks his own beer bottle to Aslan's wine glass left alone.

It's meant to happen.

_Always has._

He buries away his dread and tastes the sourness of a Romagne-Conti '69 red. Aslan catches his reflection within it. His face, lined and hardened. Fleck with blood. Aslan's pulse quickens. He stares down at his fingers dripping, soaking in red, red, _red_ …

Aslan panics, gulping for air like a drowning man and letting go of his wine glass. The contents upend onto Eduardo's knee.

His apology hangs in the air, lost and unspoken off Aslan's lips. He notices what the others, including Eduardo, have noticed. The dinner table rattles as if all of their hands slam down. No one is. Rumbling intensifies in the air like thunder.

The set of private back-doors to _L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon_ 's dining room burst open… including the kitchen's doors…

Teenagers and young adults of different races… swarming and hollering and beckoning each other…

Gangs…

Everyone else flees, hiding under the table or running for the other doors. Screams echo. Aslan coughs, choking noisily on the noxious and dizzying smoke thickening in the dining room. Smoke screen? Smoke bombs?

 _WHAT IS THIS_ …?

His voice dies inside him. Aslan's eyes water up behind his glasses.

He's helpless to the sensation of two people grabbing his arms and dragging him away.

"C'mon, Boss!" A boy with very little teeth and pink-auburn hair shouts. His arm clutches around Aslan's middle. "Hurry!"

They're crowded into a back-entrance passageway when Aslan's strength returns. The wooziness fades. He twists to escape, yelling and pushing backwards against their hands. "No! No, _STOP IT! STOP!_ _LET ME GO!"_ Aslan protests, arching his head. _"HELP!"_

"Whassa matter with you!?"

Gunshots fire. Aslan can hear it back in the dining room around the adjacent corridor. Too far away.

The other boy, heavier and with brown skin, appears unsettled by the increasing chaos. "Boss, it's not safe here—" he insists, blocking Aslan and hauling him aside, ignoring how Aslan's fingers claw his hold. "We gotta get out befor—"

Blood sprays onto Aslan's eyeglasses. He blinks rapidly, shell-shocked.

His abductor suddenly drops dead.

Eduardo charges into view, raising his pistol, wearing a impassive and cold expression. He immediately shoots the boy with pink-auburn hair next. Aslan flinches, shutting his eyes tightly, hearing a pleading, low gurgle and another shot fired.

"You're safe, honey," Eduardo murmurs, wrapping an arm protectively to Aslan. Stepping over the bodies like they're nothing.

Aslan's stomach lurches at the disgusting pet name. At the manner of how he kills without feeling. At the hot, sticky blood drying on Aslan's face and glaring brightly on Eduardo's crisp and white shirt-collar.

He guides Aslan towards the dining room, holding him close, turning the corridor and ordering a few other guards to clear the area. The smoke lightens. Dead bodies. Four of the gangsters and two guests including the Republican senator.

Father cowers against three of his men, as they reload their guns and hold their position. Hatred darkens his wrinkled, pallid face.

Aslan feels his strength give once more. He ends up on his knees, Aslan's hands quivering and pressing to his temples. His bright green eyes widen, nearly twitching out of their sockets. This is wrong. This is all… _all wrong_.

He's not safe anywhere.

*

> 2018 — May 12th — 10:38:01 PM

Ash would have been pissed.

He would have told them to give the whole mess up and reconvene.

Down in the sewers, whoever is left of their rescue team scurries into the darkness. Some injured, and others visibly distressed and stunned. "Fuck," Sing mutters, running his dirtied hands over his face. He bangs his head to a concrete wall. "Fuck…"

"We screwed up!"

"I need help over here!"

"Anyone seen Bones and Kong?"

"I saw 'em." One of Ash's guys scowls. "They were _gunned down_!" he bellows. "We were _FUCKED_ the moment we got there!"

Shorter licks his lips, gazing back to his men and a defeated-looking Sing. He's without his brow cone-piercing or purple mohawk. His greyish-black hair shaved. "We still have eyes on Ash," Shorter points out, becoming a little more levelheaded.

"That's not Ash Lynx," Cain says gruffly, folding his arms. "They did something to him."

It goes silent and tense among the whispering. The air down here has a powerfully rank odor of shit-water. Sing and Shorter peer over to the remainder of the men helping them with communications and back-up as they wander along the lantern-light.

Alex, somber-faced, clasps onto the shoulder of another man hunched over.

"It's Ash… I know it is," Eiji mumbles, lifting his head. Eiji's fingers to his left hand grasp at his wrist. Or rather, whatever is left of it.

His dark eyes brighten with conviction.

"And we're not giving up on him."

*


	4. Slight Rebellion off Madison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been INCREDIBLE about giving feedback and encouraging this fic and reacting and that's why I keep doing this. SO WE GOT AN UPDATE. Thank you for sticking around and WE WILL HAVE A GOOD ENDING. IT'LL BE SO GOOD. 💕💕💕 Any comments/thoughts are deeply welcome! If you are a new reader, you are welcomed to say hi too!

> 2018 — May 13th — 05:33:02 AM

Breathing feels like taking mouthfuls of hot, pressurized air.

Aslan does nothing as his heart palpitates and accelerates its speed. Sweat dampens his orchid purple men's cardigan. He's faint. A tingling sensation goes over the crest of Aslan's head, down to his temples and behind his eyes struggling to open.

All he can do is nothing.

_(It's a panic attack?)_

The main greenhouse seems like it's gone underwater, filling and overtaking his lungs. His nose. His ears.

Aslan stiffens up, unmoved, quivering, trying to convince himself he's _fine, fine,_ _fine, finefinefineFINE_ , and the edges of Aslan's eyeglasses fog up. Father remains with his back to him. He's wearing a soft elastic hat with a wide brim to shield his pallid-pasty complexion.

Green.

Green like Aslan's eyes.

_(Why the GREEN? Why is everything so GREEN all of the time?)_

Aslan gulps loudly and focuses on the well-drained concrete floor beneath him. His mind sorts through a whirlwind of thoughts.

Concrete eliminates dirt and weeds that attract insects and harbor diseases, especially of bacterial and fungal nature. The naturally light color of the concrete reflects back when the sun pours in. It's better for the plants. Using dirt means less chance of drainage for water and is messier. Gravel, rock, wood and brick costs less and can be installed without any problems—

This glasshouse comes together from 10-foot panels all lined up in its structure and jointed together. It's not made of clear glass. Fiberglass, transparent and with a UV protected surface, allows the entry of bright white sunlight through the conserved glazing. It's what retains the heat in here. Higher numbers on the R-Value of covering means better efficiency. Fiberglass is much more durable and lightweight but will break down in the span of five or six years and will be replaced professionally—

God, why does it matter, why, why — Aslan screams to himself. It's useless knowledge to him. His father is the one who cares about greenhouses and expensive red wine and business affairs. Aslan wants to escape this mansion. Live his own life.

Aslan can't shake off the unsteadiness. Even thinking about something else won't help him.

The watering canister in Aslan's leather gardening gloves sloshes the water inside. He quivers harder, Aslan's skin flushed-hot for no reason. The smell of marigolds and chrysanthemums and geraniums overpowering and making his head spin.

"Aslan," Father speaks up, hushed and eerily calm. "What did I just say to you?"

"I-I, uhm—" His chest hurts. Tightens. Aslan fights to exhale. _"Th-that—"_

"That the human body takes one hundred and sixty eight hours to be decomposed by maggots." Aslan's father says this like it's a matter of fact. He's also in waterproof gloves and handling some of the dusky red roses. Thorns drag across leathered, tea green material. Same as the hat. Same as Aslan's gloves. Same as his _fucking-damn_ eyes. "Within one hundred and sixty eight hours, this will all be a poor memory."

Aslan doesn't even want the memory. He can't help but think of the bodies left in the corridor. Pink-auburn hair. That kind, brown face. Eduardo shot them. Not a flinch in his dead eyes. Aslan did nothing but stood there and let it happen. He did nothing.

Even if the two young men were part of a gang… they didn't deserve to be murdered.

What happens to them now? Are they dumped in a lone alleyway with guns planted in their hands? Is it even reported? Do their friends know what happened to them? Did they have families? Were they loved by anyone?

"Why did anyone have to die?" Aslan says quietly, ignoring the little, persistent tinny coaxing him to stay silent.

Father's eyes narrow.

"Couldn't we have just run and called the police?"

Aslan's father regards him for a moment.

"Did they seem like reasonable people to you, Aslan?" he points out.

Aslan watches him inspecting the rose leaves for decay and pests, squirting a little of insecticide soap spray. "Killing our guests and attempting to take you as a hostage?" A tutting noise of disappointment. "They knew who you were," his father explains, and Aslan's features twitch into disbelief. "You are my son. You were worth more to them than the rest of us last evening—dead or alive."

"Neither of the two were going to kill me," Aslan mumbles, rubbing his bared wrist to his forehead.

"How do you know this?"

"Because they would have _killed me_ instead of dragging me out of the room." he insists. For the first time in a long time, Aslan lets his outrage manifest. "I don't understand— _I don't!_ Eduardo shot both of them and killed them! He didn't have to!"

"We owe Mr. Foxx and my men our sincerest gratitude. I have no doubt of this." Aslan's father tells him harshly, "If not for him, you would have been traded to the most unsavory of men longing to use your body in vile ways… ways you cannot possibly imagine in your young and sheltered life…" Hazel eyes narrow further. Aslan feels his panic attack intensifying as the other man's expression darkens.

It's too close to something like hatred pinning on Aslan.

"If you were so lucky, Aslan… you would have been drugged beyond comprehension before they raped you… killed you… and sold your organs…" As the other man steps in, drawing himself to his full height, Aslan goes wide-eyed and backwards. He plops down onto an upside-down metal pail, flailing his hands, clutching onto the sides. "Perhaps a little fear will allow you to understand how dangerous the world and all of its scum is."

Even with his low, intimidating words, Father's demeanor maintains stoicism.

"But…" Aslan croaks out.

"From now on, you will not question my decisions I have made for you. This insubordination is far too childish for someone meant to be my heir. I will not tolerate it again." His father lifts a hand and cradles under Aslan's face. He strokes a dirtied gardening-gloved thumb over Aslan's jaw. It pushes roughly against the corner of Aslan's mouth. "Do you understand me?"

Aslan resists shrinking and pulling away, looking up into those hazel eyes.

_"Yes'sir…"_

Without expression, Father drops his hand and peels off his gloves slowly. Relief feels like a maelstrom inside Aslan. He's lightheaded. "What would you like for supper tonight?" Father murmurs, smoothing the front of his knitted mauve sweater.

Aslan swallows hard, unprepared the question. His eyes burn.

He says nothing but the tension mounting leads Aslan to believe there is a expectation on him.

"Lemon garlic steamed shrimp… if it's possible, Father…"

"It's possible," Aslan's father reprimands him. Cold and cruel. "You'll be having roasted quail breast and lentil salad with sheep's milk cheese." He gazes down at Aslan, white as a sheet and burdened in his astonishment. "You will perform a rendition of Polonaise-Fantaisie, Op. 61 for me this evening as well. And it will perfectly executed. As perfect as you are."

Dark and loose soil glares on Ash's jaw. His soft, rosy lips and his face.

"Clean yourself up." Father orders, marching out.

Light billows in from above, blinding him and through the film of Aslan's unshed tears. He sits there, doing nothing but grieving. For nothing.

*

> 2018 — May 14th — 08:30:20 AM

Father has very specific rules about living with him in the Golzine mansion: No shoes indoors. No slippers on the bed. Quiet time is from 8 in the evening until 8 in the morning. No slouching at the dinner table. No jumping on and off the countertops.

No smoking (but Father can smoke his cigars while highly respected and influential guests visit, and the security team may walk out for a cigarette break if permitted). No masturbation or sex while prayer is an acceptable substitute. No rude language. No unruly behavior.

Do not question the authority of your betters. Namely, Father's authority.

Aslan broke that very important rule.

He concentrates on taking notes for his university entrance-exams. Spends time alone in his library and rereading classic novels in the late hours. Rehearses for postponed music recitals. Tutored online by professors no longer welcomed to see him.

Ever since _L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon_ , they have not visited the inner cities of New York or even left the mansion.

Aslan's father barely seems present with his constant stream of meetings and phone calls.

He locks himself in the master study for hours. It smells foul. As foul as Father's mood.

Aslan has seen him leave with his fly unzipped or reddened in his jowls as if exerting himself. In the background, the computer screen dims out. Father slams and locks the mahogany double doors before Aslan can glimpse in.

It's not his place to question Father. He knows this. Aslan listens and eats the food he's given and takes his medicine and feels nothing.

Nothing.

Everything all at once until it's numbed under Aslan's skin.

This scares him.

He thought maybe after the incident… something would have changed in his life or in him. But… Aslan… doesn't _feel anything_. Like death and emotional trauma are familiar concepts. Father doesn't make this easier. Aslan doesn't trust him. Not like before.

Something… _something has been wrong_.

His migraines return. Full force. Aslan sleeps mostly in the daytime and wakes groggy and not knowing where he is or screaming from nightmares. Nightmares of him sprayed in warm blood and hyperventilating.

He worries now about another seizure paralyzing him due to Aslan's childhood epilepsy. It's manageable but Aslan knows he could end up with a tonic-clonic seizure instead of a focal. The physicians advise him to switch from depakene onto trileptal.

600 mg.

A dark pink tablet.

Twice a day at the same time. It upsets Aslan's stomach so he will need his morning dose with food.

Aslan has missed breakfast. He wanders out into a corridor of damasked gold wallpaper. Scrolled, ceiling-length pillars. Windows made of bulletproof glass and arched, ivory-painted wrought iron. Polished and waxed floors of redwood.

The guards do not patrol this end of the mansion. It's closer to Aslan's personal library.

He hesitates when spotting a maid approaching. The older, pinch-faced maid. Isabella's brown hair tied up and streaked in grey. Brown eyes.

Unlike the young and pretty maids that Father hires for his men, she's dumpy-looking in her white uniform dress. Her apron stained with grease. Aslan remembers Leonard Miller yelling and cursing at Isabella, and how fearful she had been.

(She hadn't done anything wrong.)

Her cart of dirtied dishes piles up high. Isabella falters with a broken, spinning wheel, jerking a little. Aslan's green eyes can see it — the plates and cups flying, hitting into one of the nude, highly detailed statues, shattering apart the marble.

He runs ahead, for a short, surprising pace. Aslan's palms brace onto the stack of dishes before they fall.

Isabella gawks. "Oh, Young Master—" she wails, pressing a hand to her bosom.

"It's fine," Aslan encourages her, smiling. "Are you alright, Isabella?"

"You saved me—oh—thank you."

Aslan's mouth scrunches in embarrassment. "It looks like I saved the fine china as well," he jokes.

She clasps her light brown hands over his when Aslan lowers them. "You must be hungry, Young Master." Isabella urges him, turning very serious and stern in her heavy, thick accent. "Come, come with me." She tugs on Aslan's pale hands, and then leads him towards another corridor.

Aslan wonders why Isabella leaves behind the cart of dirty dishes but never asks.

Isabella tends to do what she wants regardless. She's absentminded. Overly emotional to a fault. It could be her age, or a cultural divide instead of generational, but Aslan doesn't mind. He has tried to convince her to use his first name but to no avail.

They head to one of the chrome industrial-sized kitchens. It looks more like a restaurant's kitchen than a kitchen for a home.

Aslan doesn't recognize this one.

It has a long stretch of lustrous, white countertop with an eat-in sectioned off. He can walk into it and scrutinize an array of cabinet drawers. On the other side is a row of light grey, cushioned stools. Glass doors for the wall-cabinets. White hardwood flooring and walls. Built-in ceiling lights. Stainless steel appliances. Three double-sided refrigerators and six ovens stacked twos.

Aslan glances to the fancy blends, panini makers, coffee machines and high end espresso makers, juicers, food processors, and magnetic wooden blocks for the different sets of kitchen knives and chopping knives.

She chats away in her native tongue which Aslan thinks is Portuguese while Isabella presses and kneads dough for baking bread. It's a little dizzying to see her going back and forth so rapidly around him, lying out bowls and pans. Aslan pulls over a grey stool, listening politely and nodding as Isabella rants, slicing nuts and knobs of garlic and tomato flesh.

It's nicer than fixating on the chaos that is Aslan's life right now. He pops out a medicine tablet, knocking it back and sipping on a glass of bright red, sweetened pomegranate juice she handed him earlier. It helps vanish the bitter coating.

Pale yellow soup boils visibly on the stovetop. Aslan can practically taste the creamy mushroom flavor.

"Family recipe," Isabella declares. He leans up, propping his elbows to the kitchen island's countertop and glancing curiously towards the pan. She clucks her tongue and shoos Aslan out of her way, grabbing and stirring in a dash of red pepper flakes.

"Where's your family, Isabella?"

"Gone." Her cheerful disposition doesn't fade. "Papa hurt me. I run away. Far away."

Aslan's brows furrow. "That's… terrible," he says.

"Now I stay here with the Young Master. Look after him." Isabella turns, grinning so widely, kindly, and booping Aslan's nose with a flour-crusted finger. Aslan's expression hardens with melancholy. He pulls off his eyeglasses, rubbing them with his sleeve.

"… I wish I was half as brave."

Isabella doesn't say anything, whistling to herself. That's when Aslan notices a sliver of red on her wrist. Her uniform-sleeve unbuttoned and rolled up to her elbow. Aslan slips back on his glasses, clearing up the blur of his weakened sight.

A tattoo. The pigment so vibrant and vermilion.

"This is so pretty," Aslan whispers, touching her wrist and holding it gently when she allows him to. He uses his blunt, manicured fingernail to trace over the lines of each marvelous, wicked flower. All of the stems and leaves. Isabella's brown eyes twinkle.

"Our little secret, Young Master."

Aslan beams.

*

> 2017 — June 22th — 05:08:00 AM

Ash frowns.

Leaving at the ass-crack of dawn sucks, but there's more pressing matters.

It's better he goes while Eiji's asleep.

Easier said than done, Ash supposes. Half an hour passes and he's still kneeling down beside Eiji's mattress, arms folded under his chin and staring in half-breathless and silent wonder at the other man. Is this… what loving someone completely is like…?

Eiji has been oblivious to any murmurous noises or creaking, flopped out on his back to a quilt, snoring lightly. His head resting and turning on a satiny, fluffed pillow. His banana-yellow tee riding up, Eiji's hip bones exposed by his drawstring pajama pants. Eiji's right hand lying out.

Ash frees one of his own hands, gently shifting Eiji's hand closer and dropping his mouth to a wrist, pressing a kiss.

Eiji smells like cheap lavender handsoap and laundry detergent, and Ash would stay here forever if he could. He reaches out, grinning serenely and nudging the back of his fingers to Eiji's brow, feeling the heavy softness of his dark bangs.

They stroke down the arch of Eiji's nose lightly until Eiji grumbles in his sleep.

Ash's grin widens.

When Yut-Lung knocked into Ash, he planted a note now smeared in Ash's dried blood.

To the untrained eye, it's a bunch of symbols and numbers in no particular order but Ash did figure out it's coordinates. Eventually. Before he can check the location, kneeling beside Eiji, his new phone vibrates in Ash's hand.

_UNKNOWN NUMBER_

Ash carefully maneuvers himself onto his feet, tiptoeing for the bedroom door and into the hallway. He lets out a frustrated noise.

"Gregory—" Ash snaps.

"My, my." Blanca's voice tinnies in. "Already found an older man to replace me, kitten?"

Ash clenches a fist, his lips flattening together. "You've gotta be kidding me," he mutters loudly. Ash inclines his head towards the opened doorway to see if Eiji woke up. Nope, he's still asleep. Ash shuts the door with a faint click. "What do _you_ want?"

The long and pleasant hum from Blanca — instead of _a freakin' answer_ —has Ash's teeth set on edge.

"Can't I have a friendly conversation with my adorable little—"

"—shut up already," a grim-faced Ash cuts him off. "Tell me what you want."

Blanca chuckles but loses the sugary sweetness.

"The Lotte on Madison Avenue. We stayed when you were fifteen, I believe," he states. "I'll be waiting on the top floor. Come now. I'll persuade Yut-Lung from another more permanent contract for Eiji Okumura. He's very riled up. I don't expect Yut-Lung to give up his vendetta so easily."

"Fine."

The other side of the phone line blares. He hung up on him, _the asshole_. Ash resists the very powerful urge to kick the wall.

Change in plans…

He stomps to the apartment's front door, unlocking and jerking it open.

Bones and Kong sit right by the entryway, playing cards across from each other. Their legs crossed. Kong scratches his nape as if contemplating. Bone's tongue peeks between his thin lips. They notice Ash gazing down sullenly and hop up.

"Boss!" Kong yells.

Ash closes the locked door with the tap of his foot, signaling to be quiet. "Guard Eiji for me. I'm heading out." he says briskly.

"What do we say when he comes outta the door?" Bones says nervously. "He's gonna ask questions."

"Tell him to not worry. Ibe probably wants to hear back so Eiji can call him if he's bored and I'll bring back dinner from Chang Dai." Ash offhandedly lifts a crimson-red sneaker to plant onto the door's frame and tie his shoelaces.

He finishes, witnessing Kong's expression go rueful.

"We get worried about you too, Boss," he admits. Ash raises his eyebrows a little and blinks. "Just sayin'…"

"Yeah…" Bones chimes in softly.

It takes a moment to think this over but Ash nods and runs a hand over his mouth. These are _his guys_. Almost like a family to each other and to him. Nobody else cares. He smirks, walking between them and grasping their shoulders reassuringly.

"Got it."

*

Lotte New York Palace glows even from a distance. Slabs of neutral colored quartzite brick together to form the exterior. Ash wanders into the brightly lit lobby of gilded white and patterned black carpeting. He heads for the empty, towering staircase.

A receptionist spies him as Ash ignores her and makes a beeline for the deluxe elevators.

"Excuse me!" she calls out, frowning. "You have to check in!"

_Fuck._

Ash knows that judgmental look. He's a nameless punk to her in washed out, torn jeans and a dark blue hoodie successfully hiding any trace of blood stains. Ash lowers his ruby-red hood. "I'm just here to see my uncle. He's up on the rooftop suite."

"His name?"

He shifts awkwardly, cramming his hands into his pockets and joining her by the main desk. "Blanca."

"We do have a gentleman staying in those rooms but not under that name," she informs him, peering through computer records. Ash releases an impatient grunt. "I do have a notice to allow a guest but I'll need your name for a confirmation."

"Ash."

"No, sorry. Nothing under that."

"Ash Lynx," he says nastily through gritted teeth. The receptionist hmms.

"I'm sorry. I don't see that name."

_Fucking fuck._

Ash mentally groans, tilting his head back and cursing. "Kitten," he mumbles, almost inaudibly.

"I beg pardon?" she asks, miffed.

"Just… just look at what he sent the front desk."

The receptionist taps on her keyboard and then grimaces in mortification.

"R-Right. Of course, sir."

She passes him two key-cards for the elevators, avoiding his eyes. Ash mutters out a thanks, retreating, fuming and fighting down a blush. Once he's inside, Ash thuds his head to an gilded elevator-wall and blows wisps of pale gold from his face.

Blanca is gonna die for this.

*

Door's locked.

Ash uses the second key-card he was given. The special hotel elevators only needed the one. Must be an extra room-key. He jams the gilded key-card into a slot, waiting for the dot to flash green, slipping the card free. Ash cracks the suite's door open.

No gunshots or red sniper lasers. No bullets streaking out and hitting the opposite wall.

He steps in.

Dark, reflective wood covers the hotel walls in panels. Touches of plaster moldings and granite. Ash peeks on Blanca, half-naked, in a upholstered velvet chair. He's talking to someone in a low, soothing tone. Blanca's fingers massage into the length of their back.

He leans in, bestowing a dry kiss against pale, bony ribs, mouthing against their skin.

Yut-Lung, with his silky and black hair down, reveals nothing. He sits on the chair's arm, faced away. His bathrobe drooping.

Ash watches Yut-Lung's arm comfortably slung around Blanca. Their hands gripping. Blanca speaks up, smiling and eyeing the other man as a now relaxed Yut-Lung stands up, walking out of view. Fingers slip apart until the very last moment.

He waits until Ash is sure Yut-Lung has gone, hearing a door muffled shut and the master bathroom's shower hissing on.

Ash steps in further, looking over Blanca who doesn't look the least surprised Ash was there. Of course he knew.

"I'm here," he says dully. "Talk."

"I heard you may have saved Yut-Lung's life."

Ash shrugs, walking past Blanca's chair in an outright show of indifference.

"You wanna thank me for it or something?" he complains.

When there's no reply, Ash stares back around at him. Blanca has been taught more about disguising his emotions than Ash could ever hope to learn, but his jade-green eyes dart from Blanca's tempered expression to the doorknob.

"… It's like that, huh?"

The observation seems to put Blanca at ease.

Ash ducks down, rummaging the mini-fridge and snatches up a Red Bull energy drink. He also snatches the tray of hotel room snacks. Not all of it looks like fancy-schmancy garbage. "Love comes to us when we least expect it," Blanca says thoughtfully. Ash plops into one of the other armchairs, setting the tray in his lap and popping open the can's tab. Whatever. It's not his room.

He doesn't have to pay for _jackshit_.

Ash gulps down half of the Red Bull in a one go.

"I am not ashamed of this."

"Uh huh," Ash replies, disinterested. He shovels handful after handful of peanut M&Ms into his mouth, chewing and letting saliva-wet pieces crumble onto his hoodie. "You're not supposed fuck the client. Ain't that the first rule you taught me?"

"No. I taught you to succeed and survive no matter what the circumstances were… _and then_ you don't fuck the client."

Ash snorts out more candy-crumbs, his cheeks bulging. "So much for that."

"I am not fucking anyone," Blanca patiently reaches over, extracting the tray of hotel snacks from Ash's lap. Ash swallows down his M&Ms. Blanca sets the tray aside on a black glass-topped furniture. "But I appreciate your concern all the same."

"Don't care."

Ash burps and crushes the emptied Red Bull, tossing it aside. He yanks out his phone, lighting it up.

In his camera roll, Ash has several photos snapped of his attackers. Their bloodied and bruised profiles. Ash flips over to the photos he took of their red-inked tattoos. "They're all identical," he says tersely. Blanca leans in, squinting at Ash's camera-screen. "I wanna know what this is. I found it on the guys who jumped me when Yut-Lung confronted me. I haven't found shit."

"What makes you think I know?"

"You're working for Dino," Ash says mockingly.

Blanca spreads out his arms to the rests. His muscular, naked chest flexes. "Not anymore," he declares. "I have no reason to hurt Eiji unless there is a contract involved made to me. There has not been since the last. But that doesn't mean others won't try."

Ash scowls, turning off his phone. "I can protect him."

"But he can't protect you."

It's spoken like water is wet and fire is hot. Ash's lips curls. "You don't know the first thing about him," he murmurs like a warning.

"Eiji has a good and kind heart. That much is clear but he's _naive_."

Blanca offers a sympathetic but ugly smile.

"He doesn't belong in your world, Ash. Eiji Okumura has no place here." Ash's jaw clenches. He looks away sourly. "When someone does take him away from you… you will never find happiness. You will never heal from it. Everything and everyone you touch will be ravaged and burned and you will burn alive with it, Ash… you will think you deserved it in the end while choking on your own blood."

Ash's features harden, but he says vacantly, "Is the lecture over?"

Blanca sighs, exasperated. "You—"

"You really _don't know anything_ , you limp dick," Ash raises his voice, jumping to his feet. The shower keeps hissing in the background. Yut-Lung has to know someone else was here. Even from the moment Ash used the key-card. He doubts that Blanca wouldn't have told him. "Eiji wants to be here with me… because _that's what he wants_. It's that simple."

A hysterical, disbelieving laugh escapes Ash's lips.

"I didn't have to _sell myself_ to him! He wasn't someone's puppet! He doesn't care that I've been raped and prostituted and taught to murder men with my eyes shut!" Ash's voice goes hoarse, strained and full of sorrow. "I've… god, I've _NEVER_ had that…"

Bright green eyes gleam with unshed tears.

"Nobody wants something for _free_. That's not the kind of world you and Dino raised me to believe existed."

Blanca's expression softens with guilt. Ash bows his head, sniffling and wiping under his nose furiously.

"I know I'll always be broken," he murmurs. "I know what I am. The blood won't wash away and the screams won't die, but Eiji doesn't hear them. He doesn't see the ugliness. That's all I need." Fierce determination lines Ash's face. "That's it."

He doesn't need Blanca to understand.

The other man clears his throat, standing in front of Ash glaring up at him.

"If you suspect this is the work of the Monsieur and his partners… don't you think it best to be straightforward?" Blanca's mouth quirks up as Ash — _relentless, ruthless_ — flares with beautifully savage fire. "Or are you still frightened of him?"

Ash bares his teeth.

_"Never."_

*


	5. A Girl I Knew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any of your reactions would be incredible. I love seeing them. Comments/thoughts are so welcomed and help me get your perspective on what's going on but also motivate me to keep this going. 💕💕💕 Thank you! Please enjoy this!

> 2018 — May 15th — 11:43:22 AM

He's been gone before the dawn. Thirty three minutes after seven.

Aslan's father walks out with Gregory and two other men with darkly tinted sunglasses and earpieces

They disappear into the classic Roll-Royce, saying nothing to Aslan. It's like clockwork. He goes every month, same time and same day, returning from Club Cod more revived and flushed. Energetic. Father eventually comes back with gifts as if nothing were unusual or secretive. He once presented a dumbfounded Aslan with a 18k white gold diamond watch from Switzerland.

The mansion will be unoccupied by Father for the whole day. Which means Aslan can do as he pleases.

(In such discretion.)

Aslan learns when the remaining security guards pass each hallway. Father locks all of the doors.

Ground floor to the upper levels to massive iron-bolted basement door Aslan can't help but scrutinize. Sitting rooms, lounges, washrooms, bedrooms, interior closets and attic-thresholds and libraries. All of the doors leading out to the front parlor entrances or back-rooms.

He also learns where Aslan's father keeps his most valuable item while he's gone — the keys are in his personal study.

Locked away.

Father's study has an elegant but old doorknob. A keyhole with a Victorian antique design. It's no match for Aslan's books on picking locks. He bends out a heavy duty paperclip until it's straightened, bending the tip at an angle of twenty degrees. Aslan bends a second paperclip into an L-shape as a makeshift tension wrench. He waits until the last, irrelevant guard passes.

Aslan kneels down to the lacquered mahogany door, inserting his paperclips. Rotating them and wiggling the straightened paperclip in an up-down motion until he can hear — _feel_ — the series of locks gently clanking and turning to release.

He's in.

There's only one key Aslan desires right now. The main back-entrance. He slips it free from the big, gilded key-ring twinkling in the rays of morning. It's on top of Father's desk. Aslan peeks out timidly, closing and locking the study-door behind him.

*

The sun feels much warmer. Aslan basks in it, stretching his arms and tilting his face up.

 _"Oh my darling, oh my darling…"_ he mumble-hums. _"Oh my darling Clementine…"_

From the two whitewood doors, the grand and pristine marble-white veranda stretches out for a distance. Water fountains, carved out of a similiar and expensive marble, dot along the rows of smaller gardens and greenhouses.

Aslan gives a friendly whistle between his lips, crouching down as a long-haired white cat pads to him. She's one of his only friends, Aslan supposes. She's familiar enough with him that she won't turn tail at the sight of Aslan.

Father has a cat already.

A breed of toyger that won't let Aslan pet him, hissing and clawing him much to his father's waspish amusement.

She's no beast. This cat visits Aslan's own study, pawing the window to be let in and napping in his lap while Aslan reads. He feeds her canned tuna occasionally, and lets her explore on top of his furniture, and talks to her. She didn't have a name.

"Lynx," Aslan greets her, smiling and thumbing over her silky fur. "I saw him again, Lynx. The man from my dream. I think I'm starting to remember them a little." She rubs herself against Aslan's fingers. "Eiji…" Aslan whispers his name as if it's created of the holiest prose.

Like it's each glittering star in the sky pieced together into marvelous syllables.

His chest fills with heat.

"God. God, he's the most beautiful person I've ever seen. Pitch black hair… eyes so deep and dark… and when he smiles, I feel… I feel like that's where I'm supposed to be. Wherever he is. He's my home… somehow… I wonder if he really exists."

Lynx meows, curiously sniffling his knuckle. Aslan's smile widens.

"Would you like to meet him too? Hmm?"

 _Aslan_ …

He lurches up to his feet, turning his head. Aslan's own name being called out, soft and far away.

Who is…?

Lynx wanders away, purring. Aslan doesn't notice. He gazes around the veranda, stepping down onto the marble-white steps and trying to locate the source before catching a gleam of pale golden hair. Not his reflection in cool fountain water. A person.

Something close to paralyzing fear rises in him.

_Aslan…_

It feels like hypnotism. Disorientation. Aslan follows the woman's voice, his bare feet slick-sliding into wet grass.

He approaches one of the entrances to a towering maze of dark green hedges. Her and her pale gold hair flying, her deep red blouse blowing in the wind over her high-waisted blue jeans. She strolls into the maze with her shoulders lowered, her chin held high.

_Aslan…_

"Please…" Aslan mutters woefully, His ears ring. His eyes haze out behind out his glasses. His hand stretches out in front of him, for her, for his mother and her translucently white skin and her bright green eyes staring in furious defiance. "Don't go…"

"Who are you speaking to?"

He startles, gasping and nearly falling backwards as Aslan jerks around. His eyes clearing.

For a moment — for the briefest of moments — Aslan sees Eiji. He sees the man of his dreams behind him in Yut-Lung's place, blinking. It's only Yut-Lung himself with his garnet-red tassel swaying and the fine, precise stitching on his turquoise changshan.

"Did you see her…?" Aslan breathes, peering over his shoulder.

"See who?" Yut-Lung asks. He's pleasantly calm. "Are you feeling alright, Mister Golzine?"

Aslan's mouth hangs open.

"I…"

He's… having auditory and visual hallucinations? Is this what this is?

She's not there, Aslan tells himself. His heart drums and drums in a frantic tempo. She was _never there_.

He collects himself, sucking in air and rubbing the corners of his eyes with fingertips. His eyeglasses pushed up. Yut-Lung's hand appears out of nowhere, touching lightly to Aslan's upper arm in a show of sympathy. But restrained.

"You don't make any noise when you walk."

It's a breathless, dubious observation.

"Those of us who are Chinese were brought up to move quietly. At least that's what is believed," Yut-Lung says plainly. He smirks as if entertained by their conversation. "Do you not like being approached from behind?"

Aslan frowns and shakes his head in a silent no.

"Forgive me for the intrusion. I was hoping to speak to the Monsieur… but it seems he is absent. That is quite unfortunate." Purple-black eyes roam over Aslan, as if examining a new and interesting specimen, and Aslan feels a pinch of annoyance. He's not sure where it's coming from. "Your father leaves at the same time on the same date every month, does he not?"

"How did you know that?" Aslan says, his brows lifting.

A sly look.

"That's usually when the shipments have been processed and ready for a final appraisal."

Aslan has no idea what he's saying…

"I do feel sorry for the poor dears." Yut-Lung raises a wrist to his mouth, glancing away as if now distraught. "So young… so much life ahead of them… stripped away. A man like Frank Sanchez demonstrates such severe and bloodthirsty ambition…"

Aslan's tongue feels dried-out in his mouth.

"What is…"

Yut-Lung purposely ignores him, adding on, "But I do suppose it's easier to work towards pleasure than focusing what we assume is the Corsican Mafia's involvement with the US military and government." He giggles, all smiles and politeness now towards Aslan. "Oh goodness. I'm repeating what you already knew, aren't I? My brothers often scold me for my frankness."

"I-I," Aslan fumbles. He pretends to smile, "I mean… it's no trouble, Mister Lee. Should we prepare a room for you?"

"No, no. Don't trouble yourself. I won't be a bother any longer to you. I'll return another day." Yut-Lung's mouth softens. "This meeting shall be our little secret, won't it?" he murmurs, their eyes meeting with pure intensity.

"Of course."

Aslan watches him bow and saunter across the lawn, feeling the crawling twinge of a migraine in his skull.

More secrets… there's more and more secrets being asked of him.

(But why?)

*

> 2017 — June 22th — 09:40:00 AM

Ash parks Shorter's secondhand and orange motorcycle, turning off the roaring engine. His legs still straddle its sides.

His phone buzzes. Ash checks the name on his screen thoughtfully, answering.

"Eiji," he murmurs.

"Thank god," Eiji lets out a relieved noise on the line. Something clatters in the background. Probably him knocking into one of unused tableware sets, Ash guesses. "I thought something was wrong. Bones and Kong didn't know where you were either—"

Ash smirks. "You worried about me?" he teases lightheartedly.

"That's not the point." Eiji's voice goes strained, "Ash, where are you?"

_Shit._

Ash eyes the Golzine mansion with its blue slate roofing and marble exterior walls. Past the ornamental black-iron gates and to the perfectly cultivated lawn and to a single statuesque fountain of a little boy-angel weeping. Ash recognizes his own likeness.

He never wants to be in that hellhole again if Ash can help it.

"I'm with Blanca," Ash says calmly. Maybe a bit too calmly. "We've come to an agreement about you not getting shot again."

Eiji sighs.

"You know…" he trails off. Ash can almost see the tired and benevolent expression on Eiji. "I'm sorry. I know you told me before that I'm not a very good liar. And that I should stick to what I'm good at… but you're not a good liar either, Ash…"

Ash's heart clenches. He doesn't wanna do this.

"I'll see you soon," Ash says tonelessly.

"Okay." Eiji sounds reluctant but accepting what this is. "See you soon."

Neither of them hang up, holding the silence as if wishing for a reprieve. Ash grimaces, his thumb tapping on **END**.

He hates himself for it.

For all of it.

Down the polished stone-travertine walkway comes five of Dino's men. Ash hauls himself off the motorcycle.

"This way," one of them says gruffly.

He's crowded and led into the back property right to a narrow and sleek glass-greenhouse. The trusses hold mostly everything above in place, vertical and grouped in a rafter with compression-struts and members of steel-welded chords carrying the tension in framing. Roof-ridges keep the structure while purlins run the length. Bar caps seal the glass from leakage.

There's lots of wooden flooring in this greenhouse. Every shelf full. Saffron crocus and Juliet roses and Shenzhen Nongke orchids. Dino lumbers inside, holding a metal digging spade. A smudge of perspiration on his hunter-green neckerchief.

"Leonard, pat him down," Dino speaks up.

The security guard who addressed Ash earlier sneers. He must be new.

Ash grumbles, yanking out his magnum revolver and passing it to Mickey Morris. One of the guards Ash is familiar with. "This is all I got," he announces, staring defiantly at this Leonard bastard licking his lips. "You wanna strip search me too? Anal cavity?"

"That won't be necessary."

Dino beckons to him. It's hot as _balls_ inside.

Ash huffs, cramming his hands into his jean pockets.

"What are you trying to do, old man?"

"Such impudence," Dino comments. He acts like he's reprimanding a kid. One of Dino's bare hands drag over clumps of potted soil. "Take your hands out of your pockets when you speak to me. Go put on the gardening gloves and help with pruning."

Ash's bright green eyes roll.

He doesn't argue, marching over to a nearby table covered in dirt and hand tools. Ash yanks on clothed, floral-print gloves, taking a pair of handheld shears. The gloriosas have been fully bloomed. Flaming with hues of magenta and crimson veined in a brilliant yellow. Ash clips away a dead, browning stalk with its leaves attached, listening for the movements around him.

Dino passes behind him. "I have not forgotten how ill you spoke of me," he says.

It takes a moment but Ash hesitatingly recalls the phone call with Gregory in the public library. Few weeks ago. "Someone's gotta tell you how it is," Ash mutters, the edges of his mouth curling up. He runs a fingertip lucidly over a petal.

"And you've taken it upon yourself to do this, have you?"

The glower from Dino only makes Ash shrug vacantly. If this had been two years ago, Ash might have winced. Cowered and been frightened. Said he was sorry, so sorry, _I'm sorry, please don't hurt me, please, I'll be good—_

Ash's teeth dig harshly into the flat of his tongue.

"Never forget that I made you," Dino whispers, staring into Ash's profile with hardened, hazel eyes. "I took you in. I made you worth something as a _whore_. You were desired. You were worshiped by others. I gave you an good education and books and a wealthy upbringing. I gave you salvation—"

"—and made my life a living hell when I was already at my lowest. Got it."

Ash's features remain empty of feeling. He tastes blood.

Dino harrumphs.

"Is that so? I was not aware that you felt this way," he answers.

The item drops from Ash's hand so suddenly, banging and rattling onto the wooden flooring.

Ash can see it. He can see it right now. Picking up the cutting shears and jamming them ruthlessly into Dino's left eye. Going in deep. Violating him like he violated Ash. Baptizing these pretty _fucking_ flowers in Dino's hot, stinking blood.

"… Whatever," Ash mumbles, throwing off the gardening gloves. "I'm here about this."

He reaches into his dark blue hoodie. All of the security team — in and out of the greenhouse — cock their guns. Dino waves a hand, irritated.

Ash exposes his phone, flipping into his camera roll and letting Dino inspect the tattoo photos. "You're not exactly subtle," Ash retorts, motioning to their surroundings. "If you want me out of the way, you're gonna have to try harder."

Dino makes a low, fascinated noise.

"That is not a flower you are thinking of," he assesses. "You are looking at a bloom of the pomegranate fruit."

Ash crinkles his eyebrows, grabbing his smartphone back and staring down at the image.

"Red pomegranate?"

"Commonly known as the fruit of death. Their blooms fall plentiful due to extreme cold temperatures or whitefly infestation or a lack of fertilization. They begin in life as both male and female. Do you see the carpels above the stamens? Just so?" Dino's meaty finger hovers over the screen. "Males and unfertilized females tend to wither away as blooms and die before the others."

"Great," Ash declares. "So call off the tattooed freaks of yours before one of them actually dies. We can settle this ourselves."

Dino frowns sternly. "Language—"

"I said—"

"You have wasted your efforts coming here, I'm afraid. I have never seen such a design on a person and I, too, have not been the one sending your underlings after you. I know you blame me for this as well."

Ash sneers, fuming. _"Bullshit."_

"I am not lying to you, Ash," Dino says, patting off his midnight-colored woolen robe. "I have no need to any longer."

"What the _HELL_ are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about making you mine." Ash's stomach flops queasy at the predatory look behind Dino's eyes. "My son."

Ash smiles slowly but there's no joy in it. No humor. Malice blossoms like the bloodless flowers. "The first time you said that was hilarious… but now?" Ash says, twirling out his hands dramatically. "It's getting sad, Dino. I would put a bullet in my mouth first."

"A highly irresponsible move on your part. I know you refuse to leave that boy's side."

_That boy._

Ash's eyes widen.

_When someone does take him away from you… you will never find happiness. You will never heal from it._

Blanca's words echo in his head, burning brightly and raging.

He feels it too. Coursing through Ash and turning everything in his vision red. Red, red. Red as Dino's blood he longs to spill. All of Dino's plans and schemes and the evil that drives him. Ash will spill it all and ravage it, and make sure none of Dino ever consumes an innocent soul ever again.

Ash seethes at Dino wordlessly, cold and lethal.

Gregory's hand knuckles his pistol.

"Any hand you put on Eiji next time, you're gonna lose," Ash says softly. "Forget threats. It's a promise, you sick old fuck."

Leonard rages, thrusting out his gun and aiming for him.

"How _DARE_ you—"

 _"GET OUT!"_ Dino roars.

Leonard and Gregory, and the rest of the men — they do as ordered, backing out of the greenhouse.

"You've gotten far too arrogant while living on your own," Dino observes as Ash's chest heaves erratically. Once again he's the embodiment of distinguished, dignified nobility. "Compose yourself. I'm not interested in your Japanese lover."

"No, I know what you're interested in," Ash deadpans. "You want a fuckhole who will do what you want. Even after you croak."

"Despite what you may think, I am no longer seeking pleasure with your body."

_Wait—_

Dino booms out a laugh at Ash's mystified expression. "Will that make you satisfied to hear?" he asks.

It's like rotting-red bricks stacking up. Up, up, and up higher, filling up Ash's mind. They collapse on him with the weight of his realization. "No, _oh god_ ," Ash murmurs, open-mouthed in growing horror. Disgust choking him. "Oh god—am I too _OLD_ for you—"

The silence feels like a confirmation.

Ash looks away quickly, feeling the sudden, body-wrenching gag lodged in his throat.

He swallows hard, reeling. Ash's palm and fingers clamps over his lips. His eyes shut tightly.

That's why— _that's why Dino hasn't been treating him like a sex toy._

"You will be my successor when this is over." Dino's voice floats in. "I've taught you everything you needed to know when it suited me. Now it will suit us both for you to learn all I do and all I know. There's so much more I can do for you."

A minute passes before Ash composes himself, looking back at Dino. It's a slow, greying death on him, and it's feeling nothing.

Nothing.

Everything all at once until it's numbed under Ash's skin.

"Stop kidnapping and molesting little boys… … and I'll pencil it in with my secretary."

Dino snorts, overlooking the venom in Ash's eyes and revealing nothing. "I can see you need time to reconsider, Ash." He picks up a watering canister, irrigating his flame lilies. "I'll allow it to you. However… keep in mind that I am not a patient man."

Ash storms out, unable to say he's pissed. There's no _reasonable_ explanation for any of this.

Mickey Morris hands Ash his revolver, unflinching as the other man crashes past him.

*

> 2017 — June 22th — 12:03:07 PM

He heads for an shitty old hideout frequented by Ash's gang. Most of them go there to drink and smoke and fuck a girl. Or two.

Or a guy.

Or _each other_ for all he knows.

Ash doesn't bother asking questions about their personal lives.

(Bones and Kong get shy about relationships mentioned. But they're constantly together, and with Alex. Saw that coming from a mile away.)

It's a two-story, windowless building with a chimney and plastered in light blue and white graffiti. Drafty on a good night. In the height of the summer, it feels like a slow-simmering brick oven. Ash's nostrils recognize the odor of pigeon crap.

Condo isn't an option right now. He can't be there. Not now.

Not when it sits across from Dino's office.

Not in a living space so expensive and fancy and clean-cut that it reminds Ash of living trapped in the Golzine mansion.

He misses the little, cockroach-infested apartment.

Ash misses the stupid, ugly yellow towel and accidentally burning dinner and slow-dancing with a blushing Eiji in the kitchen. He even misses Mr. Stanley who complained every week to the landlord about Ash and Eiji breaking noise curfew.

The hideout's rusty-metal door slams open. Ash bursts in.

Eiji had been seated on the foot of a grimy, worn mattress with no bed-frame. Tattered blankets everywhere.

When he sees Ash, a deeply worried Eiji springs to his feet, waiting for him to say something. Ash doesn't look at him and rushes to a dingy tabletop with playing cards spread out. Half-lit cigarettes. Dollar bills and opened beer bottles. A couple of various weapons.

"Gotta get outta here," Ash mutters, grabbing a pistol and stuffing it in his waistband. "Need to get out of this friggin' city."

Eiji's worry shifts into nervousness. "Are… are we being watched?"

Ash's fist bangs onto the table, venting frustration. "Let's go," Ash says this more firmly, spinning around.

Eiji catches his arm before he can rush around Eiji.

"Ash," Eiji insists, glimpsing the high color in Ash's cheeks. How bright green eyes dart. "Ash, please look at me. Take a breath."

He's ready to fight. Ash can fight anyone and win, but not with Eiji.

_Not him._

Ash growls a little but inhales deeply along with Eiji, relaxing for a moment.

Eiji's hands rest to the slopes of Ash's shoulders.

"Tell me where you were," Eiji says urgently, frowning and seeming thwarted when the other man shakes his head. Ash pulls away, muttering, and he doesn't get far when Eiji's hands grip tighter. "Tell me what happened," he says. "I wanna help."

"Later," Ash tells him, gazing into Eiji's dark eyes with all of the vulnerability left in him. "Not now. Not right now."

He gulps loudly. Ash's own hands bury into Eiji's faded pink sweatshirt.

"Eiji, let's go," Ash repeats as if pleading. _"Let's go."_

Eiji nods, listening and appearing more concerned.

Ash's hands relocate to Eiji's face, clasping him and running his thumbs over irresistibly soft, tan skin. He presses his forehead against the hollow of Eiji's neck, wanting to feel Eiji but not wanting him to see this hurt. This pain and ugliness. Eiji doesn't need to be _burdened_ by him.

A telltale, warm tear slides down Ash's jaw.

He shouldn't be surprised that Eiji finds it, grinning affectionately and wiping Ash's cheek.

"Wherever you are, Ash… I'll be right beside you," he vows. "Nothing will ever stop me… Hell or Heaven or the sea. Nothing."

Ash sniffles, biting down on his lower lip starting to quiver. His black-wire stitches already removed.

"Eiji…" he breathes, feeling Eiji's mouth hovering to his. "I…"

_BANG! BANG BANG! BANG!_

Ash's gang dashes in through the stairwell entrance, rowdy and tipsy and calling out enthusiastically for their boss. Maybe it's because Ash was too distracted by wanting more of a kiss from Eiji, but getting interrupted makes Ash's fury skyrocket.

"Can I get—" Ash rumbles, his voice intensifying into a terrifying yell, _"—A. GODDAMN. MINUTE. AROUND. HERE!?"_

They all collectively flinch. Two or three members of Ash's gang bolts, running out for dear life.

Eiji doesn't bat an eyelash, letting Ash go.

"Do you need me to pack anything?" he asks cheerfully. When Ash's jade-green eyes fall on him, it's enough of an indication by the tiniest spasm of his head. "Okay. I'll be downstairs when you're ready, Ash."

The men back out of Eiji's way, due to mingled responses of fear and respect. Leaving a long path into bright white sunshine.

They stare at Ash who stares begrudgingly at them. He flashes his molars in a silent snarl. Ash's gang finally retreats, screaming and scrambling out the doorway, almost pitching themselves off the rickety, neon-graffiti stairs.

Alex stays behind, uncomfortable but toughing it out.

That's why Ash has him as his second-in-command. Alex intuitively knows what to do. He's a damn perfect balance of follower and leader. If Ash ever gets gunned down, he knows that Alex will clean the mess up and soldier on. Keep the peace.

"What happened with Black Sabbath?" Ash mumbles, smushing a glowing cigarette out.

Alex folds his arms. "Cain hasn't heard or found anything," he explains. Ash twists his face and blows air through his lips in disappointment. "Nobody running around in Harlem has that tattoo. You think he would know by now."

"Or they're in hiding…"

Ash looks down to the table, keeping his back to Alex and snatching up a box of ammunition.

"Eiji and I are getting out of New York. It'll be a while."

"Where you headed?"

"This doesn't need to get out," Ash blurts out, ignoring Alex's question. He scratches his nose "I need you to lay low with everyone else right now. Patrol but don't engage. Assholes like Vice Kings might get some funny ideas while I'm gone."

"We gonna be able to contact you?"

Ash guzzles what's left in a beer bottle dipping with condensation. He doesn't turn around.

Alex lets out a sigh, fighting down an exasperated grin. "… Yes, Boss."

"Good." Ash decides to turn, clapping Alex on the shoulder as he walks on. "Look after each other."

"Yes, Boss."

*

From the Grand Terminal Station, Ash figures out the railroad schedule in no time.

They stay on the two and a half hour ride from Manhattan into the state of Connecticut. Eiji dozes against a headrest. Ash can't sleep. He's too riled up and it's not smart for both of them to have their guards down. Even while traveling out of New York.

He stares out a train-window, brooding. His phone vibrates with Sing's number. Ash turns it off.

*

West Haven seems like a decent enough place.

Ash observes the dense woodland parks and shoppes and gigantic green city trees.

They head down Washington Avenue into Beach Street by a residential taxi.

There's an attraction close to Long Island Sound, perched high above the sandy-white rocks and ocean waves. According to their driver, this area used to popular with tourists in the twentieth century. It was named the White City, or Savin Rock Amusement Park before the Great Hurricane of 1943 wrecked the famous amusement park and swept everything away. Including a portion of Beach Street. They rebuilt somewhere in the 2000s.

It doesn't take much convincing to visit.

On the pier, there's only a number of games and rides. Bumper cars, mirror funhouses, pastel-colored horse carousels… mechanical fortune tellers… and plenty of food stalls. Ash notices all of the rainbow flags blazing proudly above their heads. Rainbow welcome banners, and rainbow-themed amusement park slides. Rainbow cotton candy in transparent plastic bags.

(And not one damn hoodlum in sight.)

Eiji stares down inquisitively at the pamphlet they were handed, flipping it over and peeling the rainbow flag temporary tattoo.

He stares even longer at the tattoo.

"Oh my god," Ash mutters, peeling it off Eiji's fingertips abruptly and smiling at the nonplussed look on Eiji.

He reaches over, smoothing the colorful, bold rainbow over Eiji's tan cheek. Ash licks over his thumb, pressing his wet skin onto the temporary tattoo and rubbing in, peeling off the thin adhesive paper.

"I'm pretty sure you wear it like this."

"Oh," Eiji muses. His forefinger presses over the stripes of orange and yellow. "What?" he asks as Ash's smile widens.

"Nothing. It looks cute."

Eiji puffs his cheeks, frowning suspiciously. "You're making fun of me, aren't you?"

Ash lifts his hand up, tilting it back and forth in an ' _eh_ ' motion and snorting out laughter. Not really though. Eiji looks insanely good in… anything. Basically _anything_ he's ever tried on. Hospital bin duds or thrift clothes or Ash's own jeans riding low.

They're waiting in line for one of the food-stalls. Eiji gazes uncertainly at a little girl's bowl of deep-fried ice cream.

"She could have gotten the chocolate covered grasshoppers instead," Ash remarks.

"… Why is America like this?"

"Don't be a sissy. It's not like they would bite her back."

Eiji glares, and Ash narrows his eyes to glare back. They both chuckle.

" _Agemono_ ," Eiji says in Japanese and Ash's heart flutters. He doesn't get tired of hearing Eiji speak his own language. Or learning it. "That's, uhm," Eiji fumbles back to a heavily accented English, "that's what we call deep fried dishes in Japan."

"Cool."

Once it's their turn to order, Ash pays for the shrimp bowl and for Eiji's. It's a stir fry with kale and scallions and carrots and ginger and sweet bell peppers offered with yellow rice and herb-covered, sweet-and-sour tropical glazed marinated shrimp. Eiji loves it, and Ash prefers his shrimp plain or with avocado but he still eats his serving. He's not wasting his money.

They walk around, talking to themselves and chowing down.

Eiji forgot his phone.

_Thank god._

A gigantic, brilliantly white Ferris Wheel looms overhead. Each carriage painted a different color. Ash glances to one of the ride-workers opening up the dark pink carriage-door, waiting for passengers. "Wanna get on?" he says, nudging Eiji.

The worker interrupts, "Hey, you can't bring food—"

Ash pauses mid-bite, giving them an unblinking and sharp look.

They pale, scurrying away and ducking their head to avoid further eye-contact.

Regardless, Ash finishes the contents of his red-and-white paper bowl, tossing out his garbage. He waits for Eiji to do the same, and for him to climb in first. He shuts the carriage-door. Eiji mindfully pulls down the safety bar.

Before they know it, the Ferris Wheel rolls slowly into its first loop. Eiji peers over the carriage's side, beaming.

Ash watches him half-smiling, Eiji's black hair fanning in the gale and his dark eyes bright. Him and his stupidly cute rainbow. This feels good.

The ride halts.

Eiji mumbles something in bemusement.

Ash glances down towards the pier's boardwalk. No frantic workers. No yelling. Ash cranes his neck, glancing to the topmost and dark blue carriage. It's two guys, white and brown-haired. Averagely attractive. They're kissing like their lives depend on it.

" _Geez_ …" Ash says, ttching and kicking up his legs. Figures someone paid for a romantic opportunity to happen.

"Ash?"

Eiji's lips are stained blue from his sugary and flavored lemonade. "You came in earlier like you had seen a ghost," Eiji points out, serious but softly mannered. "You were trembling. You wouldn't tell me why, but I'm afraid you won't tell me at all."

A croaking noise escapes Ash's lips. He lowers his feet.

"I talked to Dino."

He's grateful for the flare of somber understanding on Eiji.

"I wanted to know what he knew. Dino says he's not involved and I didn't believe him at first. He was lying about sending my own guys after me, but…" Ash cuts himself off, sighing heavily. "I don't know what's really going on. I don't know what's real…"

Eiji stretches a hand out, planting it over Ash's heart.

"This is real," he assures him.

Bright green eyes moisten.

"You told me it'll be okay. I still believe that."

"… I've stopped believing in anything," Ash confesses, prying Eiji's hand away but clumsily wrapping their fingers together.

"I stopped when that bitch who was supposed to be my mother walked out for good. She's the reason Griffin's mother left." All he can hear is the pounding of his blood. "Dad said he hated looking at me because… I reminded him of her," Ash says. "We were the _same_. Same eyes. Same hair and same skin color. Troublemakers. She was beautiful and she weaponized it like I had to learn to."

Ash's breathing shudders.

"She always wore red. Dad said red was her favorite color." Eiji squeezes their hands, his head bending low next to Ash refusing to look up. "I hate her and I can't forgive her," he rasps. "Even when she abandoned me, she's still here. I want…"

"What do you want, Ash?"

At first, Ash says nothing.

He shuts his eyes and focuses on unclenching his teeth.

"I want payback for Skipper and Griffin… and for Max." Ash wants to forget. To forget how Banana Fish turned Max savage like Griffin, trying to kill Ibe and Eiji in Dino's torture dungeon. To forget shooting Max in the heart to stop him. Shorter's gang and Ash's own men came to rescue Shorter and Ash and everyone else. Ash found a lifeless Max on an operating table, his brain poked full of holes.

Ash dumped gasoline on Max and lit a match so nobody could ever touch him. Ever hurt him again.

He burned Max like Max burned the child pornography of Ash, to set Ash free.

He _freed_ Max.

But it still feels like clipped wings on Ash's back.

"I wanna be free…"

*

> 2017 — June 22th — 06:51:01 PM

Getting out of New York City seemed like a dream. A good dream. It was nice to be somewhere he didn't have every street name, every broken lamp post or urine stain memorized. Felt different and surreal and Ash liked it.

His legs feel a little numbed-out from sitting so long on the return train.

There's no rush to be anywhere. He and Eiji roam into Delancy Street, going south and into a network of alleys. Ash jams a hand into his pocket, remembering his phone and Sing's earlier call. Might as well see what's going on. He doesn't let go of Eiji's hand slipped in his, using his left to swipe through a clusterfuck of text messages. So many voicemails in his box that it's full.

Eiji notices the crowd of people in the distance. Some standing by trash cans on fire. A crop of purple mohawk.

**AMBUSH**

**VICE KINGS**

**HEL**

**STAY AWAY!11**

"Ash, look. I think that's Shorter." Eiji releases Ash's grip, cupping his hands around his smiling mouth. "Shorter!"

Shorter's head whips around.

The men in black hoodies training their guns on Shorter — they've noticed too.

_"EIJIIII!"_

Ash reacts long before Shorter's cry, yanking Eiji behind a vehicle with him. His jade-green irises and pupils dilate. Bullets thud and pop against metal. Fuck. Fuck, it's worse than an ambush. It's a massacre. Ash crouches lower, grabbing an agitated Eiji.

"Mm'okay," Eiji pants, sensing the well-concealed apprehension from Ash. "I'm okay, Ash. Go help Shorter."

"I'm gonna clear a path for you. Move fast."

Ash tugs his revolver from his waistband, cocking it.

"Stay out of sight," he adds.

Eiji nods.

Ash heaves his arms onto the car-hood, shooting and killing two men closer to Shorter. Red fluid oozing from their foreheads. More bullets fly into his direction. Ash grimaces at the explosion of white hot pain from his ear grazed by a bullet. He kills three of the men in succession, jumping up.

"Go, Eiji!" Ash yells, running forward. Eiji vanishes into the semi-darkness.

He crouches down behind another wrecked vehicle, narrowly avoiding gunfire.

Shorter joins him, hunching down. He throws off his sunglasses, cursing. Flecks of dark, spotty blood on his vest.

"What the hell's going on!?" Ash snaps.

"Nice to see you too, Ash—glad you could join us—!" Shorter reloads his own gun, his features hardened. "You ever gonna _LEARN TO PICK UP YOUR GODDAMN PHONE—?!"_ he bellows into Ash's emotionless face. _"IN THE MIDDLE OF A—?!"_

"Where's my men?"

"Fighting off the rest of them. No one's seen Blaze." Shorter's brown eyes squint as if confused. "Where's Eiji?"

Two of the Vice Kings springs up behind them. Shorter jerks around, smacking the butt of his pistol into the guy's jaw. Breaking bone. The last man slashes at Ash with a gutter-shank. Ash backs off, feeling a dribble of heat trailing down his face. He ends up with his long, brown belt slashed, yanking it off and noosing it around the guy's throat, choking and crushing his windpipe.

"You really had the guts to blow us off, huh," Shorter mutters. The corners of his lips smirk as a grim-faced Ash tosses aside the now dead body, and kicks another out of his way. "How was the date with Eiji? You better be treating my man right, asshole."

"You gay now?"

"For a nice guy like Eiji? Sure." Shorter cackles at Ash's irritated grunt. "Would that make me gay or bisexual like you?"

"Just shut up."

Ash dabs at the blood on his temple.

"What now?" he monotones as Shorter goes eerily quiet.

"Ash Lynx."

A voice rings out. Nasally and a pitch high enough that it makes Ash's skin crawl.

Ash pivots, turning and ready to fire his gun.

He sees Blaze — Vice Kings' leader.

Huge and muscular with olive skin and thick, braided hair. Most of Blaze's face hideously scarred from an encounter with Ash's lighter and an aerosol can. Blaze attempted to intimidate a much younger Ash, cornering him and threatening to fuck him raw. Ash made sure he didn't.

One of Blaze's arms locks tightly on Eiji's middle.

He's got a visibly trembling and furious Eiji held against him, arms pinned to his sides.

Eiji's cheek swollen up. He's been punched hard. There's a flat-ended switchblade held up high under Eiji's jaw.

A _retractable_ switchblade.

"Finders, keepers," Blaze taunts.

"Eiji…" Shorter mumbles behind Ash.

What feels like a horrified, enraged scream rises in Ash's mouth. His lips tighten down.

He shifts his revolver, aiming for the center of Blaze's forehead. One wrong move. That's all it's gonna take. "Ah, ah." The tip of Blaze's tongue clicks to the roof of his mouth. "Not a smart idea," Blaze says in vicious glee. "You know he'll be dead meat before the bullet gets here."

"Let him go," Ash murmurs. His fingers ache and grip the Smith and Wesson 357 Magnum revolver. "He's not part of this."

"He became part of it when you made him yours."

_No—_

Ash can't hear Shorter cursing Blaze out.

He can't see Eiji.

There's only his memory of bright sunlight in his eyes. Ash's fourteen-year-old breathing as it rattled nonstop. St. Paul's chapel echoing their bells. The girl he loved sobbing and begging for her life in the hands of an older and rival gang member. Dread flooding him. Ash couldn't move.

He had a gun with empty chambers and no plan.

No backup.

No friends.

She's there in Eiji's place, as Eiji blinks his — _golden brown framed in runny mascara_ — eyes and stares earnestly at Ash.

He can't. He can't watch it happen again.

"Ash!" Shorter's voice cracks as he screams in terror and dismay. "ASH! _ASHHH!"_

"Shorter!"

Gunshots. Footsteps pounding the concrete.

Blaze shrieks out, one of his legs collapsing from a hit. Ash feels his mind sharpening once again. Eiji frees himself, thrashing and shoving his captor away. "Down! Now!" Ash hollers to Eiji falling on his knees and covering his head, sprinting to Blaze.

Ash fires into Blaze's chest until he's out of rounds. The other man gurgles helplessly, weakly.

Sing and the others from Chinatown Gang run up, quickly flanked by a stern Alex with bloodied hands. He's accompanied by nine or ten of Ash's gang who killed the reminder of Vice Kings. Shorter barrels past all of them, gathering Eiji up into a fierce hug.

Ash heads right to Blaze, ignoring the dying noises. He thrusts up Blaze's leather-jacket sleeve. And the other.

Naked but scarred wrists.

No red tattoos.

_NO—_

Ash lets out a thunderous, raging scream. He crashes his hands to his face, Ash's revolver between his fingers.

*

> 2018 — May 15th — 12:05:23 PM

Aslan's head contains too many questions. Not enough answers.

He waits for the guard patrolling to walk around the corner, muttering into his earpiece about getting lunch. Aslan sneaks out and unlocks Father's personal and private study. It's a colossal room of lavender granite stone. Gilded fixtures and small bulletproof windows and floors of purple heartwood. Rugs of geometric patterns. Potted plants smelling earthy and lovely.

Aslan slips the back-entrance key onto the enormous ring of Father's keys. In the rightful place.

His eyes wander to a computer table near the study's far end.

He shouldn't.

He _really_ shouldn't.

Aslan contemplates what to do before he hops into the rolling desk chair. Nobody will be in until the late evening.

For all of Father's expensive things, his computer seems inexpensive. Outdated. It runs too slow. Aslan doesn't see a sign-in and can easily access browsers and history and multiple folders. However, some files are password-locked.

**_CODFISH_ **

Aslan supposes it could be the porn stash. He has no interest in searching it to confirm but that would explain why that's hidden. Does it have something to do with Club Cod? And what was Yut-Lung saying about "shipments" and a Frank Sanchez…?

He clicks through different folders, pursuing into business letters and copies of emails. Statistic graphs of profitable income.

And what was Yut-Lung saying about…?

His fingers press down and type _**US MILITARY**_ into the computer search. An entire list of files, unlocked.

Aslan's bright green eyes go round behind his glasses. He props a hand under his chin, scrolling down and opening what's available. Sequences of chemical compounds written out by hand. Drug formulas. Heart monitoring readings. Photos of various flowers.

_**SUBJECT AJC-1103** _

"… Banana Fish?" Aslan murmurs, frowning.

That's when he hears footsteps behind him. Aslan's pulse quickens.

Father sighs as if disappointed. "I was wondering when you would find out."

Aslan rotates in desk chair, so slowly. He gazes up fearfully.

"Now you have."

*


	6. The Heart of a Broken Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 09/09/20: Chapter 7 and Chapter 8 are getting revised and reworked. Thanks again for waiting patiently! I see your comments too (I love them so much) and I will answer them as soon as I have Chapter 7 up. ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

> 2018 — May 15th — 01:44:13 PM

All goes quiet.

He can only hear a dull clanging of the tall, rosewood grandfather clock.

They've marched into one of the drawing rooms, being served cappuccinos and being waited on for with further instructions. Aslan likes his with a double espresso. Velvety. Deliciously dark. A heavy sprinkling of cinnamon instead of chocolate powder.

Father reads his newspaper, sitting across from him as if nothing happened. Aslan doesn't know what to expect. Or think.

He found Aslan on his study's computer but ordered him out with a calm, methodical voice. Aslan's father led him with Gregory and two other guards into this end of the mansion. Thin burgundy carpeting. Windows made of arched, ornately designed iron and locked shut, cascading in the sunlight. The lavender granite walls resemble Father's personal study.

A white-clothed table lies out in front of Aslan. Black oak. They've had dewy glasses of cool clear water set out. A bowl of apples and oranges and green grapes and pears. Freshly baked apricot scones. Croissants and raspberry tarts.

Father's butler — a stern, silent man in his late fifties — doesn't leave Father's side. A silky, ivory cloth folded over his arm.

Aslan glances down to his plate he hasn't touched. A smoked salmon and egg salad on a toasted baguette.

"Shall I have Nathaniel fetch you something else from the kitchens?" his father speaks up, elegantly creasing his newspaper with his fingertips and leaving it on the table. "I know you are quite fond of the Belgian waffles dipped in truffled strawberry sauce."

Aslan pats his lips off. The steamed milk foam blends onto ivory-silk material.

"No… thank you."

"Very well," Father says, sipping his cappuccino. He's dressed more informally than usual: an oversized, white cashmere sweater and his dark undershirt with the high, winged collar. A newly ironed cravat of a deep gem-green.

"You must be wondering why I've returned so early."

Aslan doesn't say anything at first. He dutifully waits for him to go on and Aslan's hands clutch together in his lap.

"I have a meeting this evening," Father announces. "As you are aware, the Corsican Foundation has ties to a number of very important government officials. Preparations must be done. Club Cod can be managed without me for the time being."

"Don't you go to…" Aslan trails off, and his mouth goes sour. Like there's an old, filthy taste he can't get rid of.

(Yut-Lung mentioned pleasure.)

"Relax?" Father's mouth smirks under his bushy, silver mustache. "Of course. That establishment is my pride and joy next to you." Aslan's brows lift high on his forehead. He's incredulous even as Aslan's father climbs to his feet, leaving his cappuccino.

"You're… not angry with me?"

"Angry?" Father's voice seems toneless. Smooth as silk. All of the silk on Aslan's bed-sheets and the finery.

He moves around the drawing room's table, approaching from behind. There's a potent scent of orchids. Noxious. Aslan winces when Father's hand grips onto his nape with brutal force. His pale, meaty fingers like a vice. Aslan keeps his head bowed low, enduring it.

It's not his place… _it's not his place to question Father._

"You showed true initiative. Remarkably bold… even for someone like you… but highly effective. I was aware of your defiance. I longed to see how it grew and manifested like a seedling." Aslan's heart hammers. "I am convinced now more than ever that you are ready for this. Aslan Golzine will be an infamous and powerful successor worthy of his family's name."

(Why doesn't it sound like him? Why does his own name… sound so _wrong_?)

When he lets go, Aslan's body sags over himself as if he's close to fainting. His hands quiver apart.

"Come. Sit with me, boy."

He obeys, joining Father at the two walnut armchairs cushioned with a velveteen teal. "You have questions about the discovery you made, I'm sure." Aslan's father properly looks him in the eye, lacing his fingers over his stomach.

Aslan nods.

"What is… Banana Fish?" he murmurs.

"A human-manufactured drug. Created on accident in a lab and sold to our enemies. It's also called B1."

Father takes in Aslan's shock expression, remaining vigilant and forthright.

"In the past, B1 had a terrible use in hands far more corrupt than ours. They used the drug to assassinate peaceful world leaders. CEOs and industrialists. Wealthy bureaucrats. It could have been used on the members of the organization we are responsible for. It could have been used on me or you, Aslan."

A string of fear plucks within Aslan. He's not sure what for.

"In Kafghanistan, a military coup was staged not too long ago. We set up a pro-American government to monitor and bribe the heroin producers. After all, Kafghanistan is the leading manufacturer."

Aslan's father accepts a large wine glass of seltzer water from Nathaniel, his butler.

"B1 was used on Maliban Anti-Government radicals. Unfortunately, around ten thousand American soldiers were dragged into it and abandoned. But we got our hands on B1 at last." Despite horrific matters, Father's eyes gleam in victory. "We can sell the drug to the US military to win our wars. If not, we can perfect it for other uses."

Aslan's father nods to Nathaniel who offers a glass to Aslan. Aslan shakes his head firmly, putting out a hand.

"I understand, Father."

He's still mildly curious, observing him.

"But… who is Subject AJC?"

"AJC-1103," Father corrects Aslan. Hazel eyes gleam more brightly. There's an emotion raging in his father that Aslan cannot identify. "A monumental and very strong candidate chosen strategically in our work with B1. The _perfect_ specimen."

"I didn't see any further records on them. What happened?" Aslan inquires. "Did they die from it?"

"No!" Aslan's father chuckles, snarl-grinning and Aslan can see his yellowing gums. "The experiments were a complete _success_ as anticipated. We have him hidden away for safekeeping. Many would be glad to steal or destroy the fruits of our labor."

Aslan's hands quiver again, so suddenly, digging into the velveteen.

"The research can now go to hospitals with patients experiencing cognitive and behavioral irregularities. Patients with neurodegenerative ailments such as dementia or Alzheimer's."

Bright green eyes squint thoughtfully.

"You can make a cure for memory loss," Aslan concludes. "Potentially."

For a moment — only that single and solitary moment in time — Father looks so proud of Aslan.

Something intangibly warm rises in Aslan's chest.

"Not only that, but so much more can be done." Aslan's father makes a gruff noise, reclining further down in his armchair. "Success is most assuredly ours now with the different versions of Banana Fish created. There's no stopping what is to come."

_"Couldn't you…"_

Aslan's breathing goes ragged.

"Couldn't you use the drug to strip away memories from a person?" Aslan blurts out. "Or replace them with new ones?"

Father hums. "That's quite a statement."

Aslan nervously clears his throat, trying to seem more confident than he really is beneath his father's piercing gaze.

"I-I just… I thought because of…"

"Doing such a thing be cruel, wouldn't it?"

"It would, yes…" Aslan agrees, saying blandly, "But… if you are fighting a war, would it matter… if they were your enemy?"

He somehow doesn't feel reassured by Father's overly gleeful demeanor.

*

> 2017 — June 22th — 10:06:06 PM

Nine of his men are dead.

He's supposed to be the leader. Ash is supposed to _be there_ and defend them.

Word got out about him and Eiji leaving New York City. It could have been anything — _anyone_. Anyone could have seen him get on the bus. Anyone living here could have overheard Ash talking to his men. It doesn't matter now. People are _dead_.

Ash remembers a loud and devastated scream tearing out of him.

The cool-headed leader. The leader who can kill with precision and malice and hardheartedness.

He remembers everyone backing off. Ash's gang disappeared into their hideouts, licking their wounds until they hear from Ash.

Sing convinced Shorter to return with the Chinatown gang, using Nadia and the restaurant as an excuse since she's insisting they're shorthanded on a busy evening shift. Shorter reluctantly listened. Despite how disorientated he felt then, Ash overheard Eiji reassure Shorter that he's fine. He and Ash were gonna be fine and they would call Shorter later if Shorter wanted.

Eiji…

_He doesn't belong in your world, Ash. Eiji Okumura has no place here._

Ash fists a hand, slamming it repeatedly into the bathroom tile-wall. Like a broken, dying heartbeat. Like his own. Ash's breathing erratic and tight. His teeth grit so hard together that Ash can feel the ache building in his jaw.

He told Blanca he could protect Eiji.

Ash didn't.

He… _he hesitated_.

Ash crushed himself under the weight of his past mistakes.

His fist slams out again, cracking apart a tile. Dark blood drips over the tub's rim. Ash lowers his arm, gripping his face with his other hand and ignoring the sudden, sharp flare of pain. He trembles, fighting off a chest-heaving sob.

He almost lost Eiji like he lost _her_.

Her and her reddish-purple curls blew into Ash's face, smelling like coconut oil. Her brown face glossy with makeup. How glamorous and pretty she was. She was too tall in high heels and too skinny and too opinionated in her social circle… and Ash liked her just the way she was. Her arm hooked his comfortably when she let Ash stroll with her into Central Park or Times Square.

Ash tried to keep her off the streets but she wasn't afraid of the bad neighborhoods. She wasn't afraid of anything.

They were young. Too young. Ash was too young and too stupid to be a leader.

She wasn't afraid of anything _until she was_.

And then… it was over.

"Ash?"

Eiji peeks in. Most of the condo's lights are dimmed down, but not the master bathroom. Walls and floors in glazed marble tile. Platinum sink fixtures. Onyx-and-pearl accents shimmer exquisitely under the fluorescence.

He finds Ash hunched over and naked in the blood-tinged water. Ash's face pressed into his knees.

"It's me, Ash. I'm coming in," Eiji tells him gently. He rolls up the sleeves of his white V-neck, clasping the edge of the porcelain and sitting behind Ash. Eiji's knees sink into the designer bathmat shaped like clusters of amethyst roses.

Silence follows.

There's bubbles of soapy suds left in Ash's hair. Eiji rinses them out, combing his fingers into pale gold and murmuring.

Ash doesn't recognize the words.

Or if they're in English.

Eiji notices the dried blood on Ash's temple and streaking in and around his ear. The facecloth cradles wetly in Eiji's right hand, scrubbing and washing out the shell of Ash's pinkened ear.

Ash grabs onto Eiji's forearm without warning, pulling it slowly around him.

Eiji blinks in confusion, startled at first. He lets a forlorn and quiet Ash hug both of Eiji's muscle-lean arms around himself.

Without Ash knowing it, Eiji's lips curl into a smile.

"I wanna stay right here…" Ash's lips mumble against Eiji's tan skin. "Right here with you… and never go anywhere else…"

A soft snicker. "That wouldn't be so bad," Eiji declares in a whisper, moving closer. He cranes over Ash's shoulder a little to meet their eyes. Their arms clenched in and tangled. "I still wanna take you to Japan though. You would like it."

Ash tilts up his head, gazing over Eiji's face longingly.

"If I had you…"

"You always will, Ash." Eiji says this like Ash's bathwater is wet and fire is hot. He's unfaltering. He knows Ash feels small and frail right now, and Eiji doesn't mind. Ash doesn't know why. He doesn't _why_ Eiji is so good to him.

Ash's hand lifts dripping-wet, touching Eiji's cheek. Eiji's rainbow tattoo flecks as Ash rubs his thumb over it. "You promise…?"

Eiji doesn't hesitate. He smiles so widely, the tips of their noses brushing. His eyes damp.

"Promise…"

That's all he needs. Ash knows it.

He can barely breathe with how full he feels. How happiness swells inside him.

Ash said he doesn't believe in anything.

He still doesn't.

He _believes_ _in_ what _Eiji_ believes.

Ash's palm slides down Eiji's face when they kiss, nudging Eiji's head towards him.

Eiji responds faster, whining out a little, pressing into Ash with a desperate and breathless need.

A _thank god, you're alive, I'm alive_ sort of kiss.

Their mouths open. He feels Eiji's tongue slide between his lips, and it's hot. It's so hot wherever Eiji touches. He's gonna melt right into the warm, sloshing bathwater. Eiji's fingers sweep devoutly over pale gold stubble on Ash's jaw. Their hands fumble to hold.

In the middle of this, one of Eiji's knees collides harshly into the Refreshe shampoo bottle. Tipping it over.

"Damn it," Eiji murmurs, his lashes fluttering open.

Both men laugh lowly into each other's mouths.

Ash separates from him, pressing his whole face into the space between Eiji's right cheek and his neck.

He mutters something that turns Eiji a flushed red. Ash grins with all of his teeth, draping an arm out of the tub and cradling the back of Eiji's head to keep him there. He presses harder into him for a moment, bursting out into loud, childish laughter when Eiji mutters back.

The other man slumps over Ash's shoulder, groaning, dramatically hiding his face.

They're alive. That puts it all into perspective for Ash.

Eiji has to stay alive.

No matter what.

*

> 2018 — May 15th — 09:20:02 PM

_"The meeting will be promptly at 9:30."_

_"Dress in the clothes I left for you."_

It's hot.

He's too hot and stuffy for a two-piece suit. Aslan fiddles with the buttons on his white dress shirt and the blue-patterned tie. He smooths out his gelled-flat hair. This feels ridiculous. He stares up at nothing, crinkling his nose in aggravation.

Father wants to test him again. To see if Aslan can handle being under pressure and impress everyone. Including Father.

Isabella hums, using the men's suit brush and dusting off his charcoal grey suit. She's the only one Aslan allowed in. He's constantly having anxiety attacks, and Aslan's enormous dressing room seems less miserable with her there.

"Very handsome, Young Master." Isabella circles him, brushing his wool, dark green slacks. "Girls and boys… they fall over and propose…"

Aslan huffs as if disbelieving. He stares ruefully at himself in the full length mirror. Translucently pale skin. Almost unhealthy. His cheeks are too prominent. Aslan's shoulder-length hair would look better if cut shorter. He has a feeling about this.

"… It's like I am pretending to be someone else," Aslan remarks, stepping down from the platform.

His bright green eyes go round when Isabella roughly smacks her light brown hands to his cheeks, framing him. It jostles Aslan's eyeglasses. "You are nobody but yourself," she scolds him. An igniting flicker of urgency in her brown eyes. "Remember this."

"Um…"

Isabella brightens, pinching Aslan's cheeks and smiling in her merry, motherly way.

Like nothing is ever wrong in the world.

Aslan smiles with her, listening to Isabella fuss over him in Portuguese. He hopes there's a world like that waiting for him.

*

He's led into a monitoring room with various television screens and darkly leathered stool-chairs. Nothing remarkable about it. It's mostly empty space for a room. Perhaps the inconspicuousness stems from a lack of natural lighting or artificial.

Each screen has a face.

Aslan identifies them mentally and quickly: Donald B. Taylor, a New York state judge; Senator Kippard, from Texas; Colonel Holstock, stationed in Washington D.C.; Mr. Smiles, the White House Chief of Staff; two Congressmen in Pennsylvania; Eduardo Foxx, who Aslan wasn't expecting. Father had him look into all of them, where they invested and their politics. Who owned them.

The feed trills in their mumbled voices. This seems more like a conference call than Father's important meeting.

"Is this him?" One of the Congressmen asks, a tiny American enamel pin on his lapel. "The subject?"

Aslan sits himself down behind one of the newer armed guards, sensing tension. Donald B. Taylor shuffles his papers, refusing to look up. The other Congressman narrow his eyes at his acquaintance. Mr. Smiles… well, it's a horrifically eerie smile on him.

Father hasn't said anything, but this fool of a Congressman blanches under Father's gaze.

"I-I was mistaken, of course," he says abruptly. "Forgive me. We were scheduled another time with Dr. Mannheim."

Eduardo drums his fingers together. "I do believe this is Monsieur Golzine's son."

"A son?"

"He's lovely enough for a _dress_."

Colonel Holstock and Senator Kippard guffaw on their web-screens. The ping of irritation fuels him.

"I'm sure Mrs. Holstock could provide if I were to make a request," Aslan drones, getting their attention. Father peers sideways to him. "She's very popular and very active on her social media accounts. Even the private ones I gained access to."

Aslan's lips quirk.

"The chateau in Beverly Hills your wife shares with… Senator Williams, _yes_ ," he mock-sighs, looking away and rubbing his forehead. "She goes to Aspen with District Attorney Elliot T. R. Johnson. Last week, it was the romantic dinner with Governor Melissa Fletcher… it can be difficult to keep up with the names… you bought and paid for the chateau already, haven't you?"

Hush brims from every connection. Colonel Holstock's face turns into a porridge color.

Aslan leans back unsmiling, crossing his legs primly.

"… I prefer red, by the way," he declares.

"Like the Devil himself," Eduardo purrs to Aslan, leering with his dead eyes. "All-knowing and all-seeing. How marvelous." If he wasn't so high off the exhilaration of their mounting approval, Aslan might have been more revolted. In them. In himself.

Father taps his cane with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Gentlemen," he interrupts. "Let's begin."

*

> 2018 — May 17th — 03:33:31 PM

There's discussions in place of electing Aslan a seat. He has the makings of a future Council Candidate.

Aslan has no interest in it.

None at all.

Having a second meeting would disrupt his entrance-exam prep and studying. There's no way to reasonably explain this to Father who doesn't allow him to leave the house. How can he be accepted into Columbia University in the City of New York?

(And how will Aslan tell his father when the letter comes?)

It's all a mess.

Aslan hasn't shaken off his fatigue in weeks. He's dissociating and bewildered coming out of dinner and finding himself on the toilet. Out of body experiences. Lethargy. Sleeping off and on during irregular hours. The migraines. Nightmares.

"I keep dreaming about him…"

Dr. Alexis Dawson jots with his pencil. Aslan's therapist.

A man personally hired by Father after the death of Madame Golzine.

Aslan has been seeing Dr. Alexis more frequently. Only by webcam. He's in his late forties with a balding head. Tufts of light brown hair on either side of Dr. Alexis's head. He looks a man pretending to be a mad scientist in a Sunday morning kids show.

"Mmhm." An impassive noise. "Tell me more."

"Do I have to?" Aslan breathes, staring down to remove at a stray thread on his pants.

"Aslan," Dr. Alexis reprimands him, adjusting his thin-rimmed glasses. Aslan's mouth tremors. "I have told you once before that giving into the need to repress your emotions and your thoughts will only further harm your mental health. "

"I know…"

"Good. Now tell me."

"He… he's there when I'm in bed." Aslan's voice goes tiny and strangled. Wrecked with fear. "I know I'm asleep… and I know he's not real… but he… he's gonna hurt me. I know _he's gonna hurt me_ when he finally gets inside the room."

"And this man comes into your room… dressed like Bluebeard?"

"He walks in through the doorway and I can't move… and I can't breathe."

Aslan inhales, becoming frantic.

"He gets closer and I can see his eyes are red. The pupils are red." Dr. Alexis says nothing when Aslan wipes his moistened eyelids, pushing his hands under his glasses. "He's gonna kill me… he's coming for me and _he's gonna kill m_ e and I can't do anything about it."

"Then what happens?"

"I see a gun on the nightstand." Aslan pulls off his round, gold eyeglasses. He blows air through his lips, flapping his hands briefly and attempting to sound steadier than he is. "I aim it at him and I shoot him… he yells… that's when I wake up yelling too."

Ever since the nightmares began, Aslan threw out and deleted what he owned with Bluebeard as a character or as a reference.

Movies, plays, television shows, books. All of his books. He piled up one of the kitchen trash cans with Jane Eyre and Grimms Fairytales and the 1951 French film titled _Juliette_. His gilded cover of William Shakespeare's _Much Ado About Nothing_.

Dr. Alexis' screen fuzzes up as he's jotting.

"How long have you been having these nightmares, Aslan?"

"A few weeks? Months?" Aslan frowns "What does it all mean?"

"There's no answer I can give you with certainty. I take my profession seriously and would not risk misdiagnosing you." Aslan knows. Dr. Alexis is so stern and emotionless and methodical. The opposite of what a therapist should be. "But what I can tell you is that Bluebeard is your brain manifesting a warning on purpose. He's a representation of your consciousness."

Aslan gives him a skeptical look. "What about the woman I saw?"

"What woman?"

"I thought I saw—"

_Mom—_

Aslan hesitates. "A woman—" he says offhandedly. "I was near the gardens and I saw her past the hedges."

"This wasn't one of the maids?"

"No."

Dr. Alexis tuts. "Interesting."

"Not really," Aslan retorts, getting frustrated. "This just sounds crazy— _CRAZY_ crazy—and _I'M_ the one it's happening to."

"You're not crazy," Dr. Alexis says coolly, and Aslan wants to scream right now about how he doesn't seem to really listen. Dr. Alexis never takes Aslan seriously. "I have no doubt that this is the result of your trauma. You've been through much."

"Right…"

"What do you truly want, Aslan?"

Aslan stares towards his window, licking his lips. To be accepted into the university of his choice. To have his Father's blessing when Aslan finally leaves the Golzine mansion to start his own life. To find out who he is. To not be sick or scared anymore.

"… To be free."

*

> 2017 — July 31st — 08:21:20 AM

It's hot as balls.

Sweat drips out of every pore Ash has.

_"Mmff—"_

He grumbles to himself, kicking away the sheets and curling on his side. Pale gold, damp strands cling to Ash's nose.

Ash grumbles again and flops uneasily, rolling onto his stomach. Living around the skyscrapers block out the sun occasionally, but not heat or humidity creeping in. Having gigantic bay windows without curtains probably doesn't help.

_"Ffrrnnn—"_

The AC isn't running. Ash tried to fix it yesterday using Google and a toolbox. He managed to instead knock apart an interior piece and the other is missing. He and Eiji argued during the chaos — even if it was halfhearted, Ash just wants to forget.

His breathing evens out. He's about to fall back asleep when a roar of laughter echos from the den.

Ash growls lowly.

 _"Eehhjuhhh—"_ he mumbles loudly, flopping out an arm and reaching. Ash gropes blindly, impatiently for his roommate.

They pushed the beds together. Permanently. It was never a real discussion or anything. He definitely isn't complaining about Eiji's arm on his waist in the middle of the night, or his back pressing against Ash's own, or hearing Eiji's little, sleepy snores.

Nothing's there but the satin sheets.

Ash drops his hand and vents out a long, half-muffled moan of anguish. More laughter. He thrusts a pillow over his head.

Goddammit.

That's it.

Ash forces himself upright, his cranky expression growing more and more irate. He stomps out. From the bedroom windows, there's a line of dark clouds on the horizon. Thunder rumbles overhead. Might as well look like a shit day on top of it, he thinks.

The condo's den has eggshell white walls — never repainted. Cherrywood paneling for doors and floorboards — replaced.

Bones and Kong hurry around, squeezing together on the Old English brown saddle-leather loveseat and enthralled by a story being told. They're practically hip-to-hip, holding mugs of hot coffee. Eiji perches himself on the pale driftwood coffee table in front of them. He's also holding a mug of coffee, rambling on, using his free hand to make a high swooping motion in the air.

They finally notice an evil-tempered Ash. He's only in his boxers and dark jeans ripped at the knees.

Ash's men squeal. Bones and Kong clang their mugs down without spilling anything and ducking behind the loveseat. If they had, Ash would make damn sure they would be mopping _more_ than just coffee stains off the wood.

"Good morning," Eiji greets him, smiling pleasantly.

Ash drags his fingers into pale gold hairs sticking up in every direction.

"You two," he snaps. "Get outta here! Now!"

Two arms, one freckled and the other dark brown, raise up to salute.

"Y-yes, Boss!"

Eiji's smile disappears. "I asked them to come in, Ash," he insists. "They wanted to talk to you."

Ash joins him, stealing Eiji's coffee and sipping. Dark roast with no sweetener. No sugar or cream. Ash makes a face. "Where the hell are you going?" he yells. Bones and Kong pause from tiptoeing out of the apartment's den.

"B-But you said—" Kong says nervously.

Ash resists an amused look. "If you can't take an order like _REAL MEN_ —then _TAKE_ a _HIKE_ —"

Eiji lightly slaps Ash on the back of his head.

"Stop it. You're being mean."

Bones squeals, ducking behind an equally terrified Kong when Ash glares at Eiji. Eiji mock-glares back.

Ash's lips flatten.

"Boss, it's The Fly. He, uhhh, well," Kong goes sheepish, displaying a text message picture. Same one on Bones' phone. No text message. Ash assumes it's the location where The Fly will show up if Ash does. "We think he wanted to contact you."

"Fine," Ash says shortly, dismissing them.

The other gangsters bound out, not willing to tempt fate on Ash's mood switching.

Eiji folds his arms, looking contemplative.

"Do you know where that is?"

"Yeah," Ash murmurs, watching the other man's features for something specific. Eiji heads over to the electric griddle plugged in. Orange juice and toast and grapefruit on the counter. Ash smells the leftover ham cooking. "… How's the shoulder?"

"A little less bruised, I think?"

"Lemme see," Ash says firmly, putting down Eiji's coffee and approaching him.

He tugs down the oversized collar of Eiji's navy-striped pullover. _Jesus_ — it's covered in deep red and purple splotches. Two of Ash's fingers map over the bruises, applying pressure. Eiji hisses in pain, and Ash hisses softly through his teeth with him.

(They were running down a building's fire escape, following a lead. Eiji fell backwards and down the rain-slickened steps.)

Ash retrieves the ice tray and dump what's in there into a plastic baggie. He seals it up, returning to Eiji unplugging the griddle and clasps onto Eiji's shoulder. "Hold still," Ash warns him, pressing the ice on Eiji's bruises. He feels a quiver.

"Why does it feel like… I'm a wimp compared to everyone else…?"

Ash laughs but kindly.

"You're not a wimp, Eiji. Trust me." He mouths a dry, faint kiss to Eiji's shoulder-joint. No bruises there. After a couple of minutes, Ash witnesses Eiji loosening up. Ash's other hand massages Eiji's upper arm. "I woke up earlier, mhh… you weren't there…"

"Sorry," Eiji murmurs, turning around. Ash lowers the makeshift ice pack. "You looked like you need a little more sleep."

Ash snorts.

"What a gentleman…"

A smug-looking Eiji rolls and arches his injured shoulder.

"You could learn a thing or two," he comments.

"Nah—" Ash proclaims, grinning and tugging Eiji close. His arms wrap under the seat of Eiji's jeans, hoisting him up.

"You're stuck living with—"

Eiji gasps, his black eyes widening. He half-shouts and half-laughs out Ash's name.

" _a vicious_ —"

Ash spins them a little, feeling Eiji's hands grip him.

" _beast_ —"

Their lips make touch-contact, over, over and over, with Eiji above him, Ash's neck craning.

" _wild about_ _you_ —"

Ash breathes in deep against Eiji's smiling mouth.

"—only you—"

 _Only you_ silently traces like a physical echo into Ash's skin through Eiji's own lips, and that's when it's real.

That's when he knows Eiji feels it too.

He's _in_ love.

*

> 2017 — July 31st — 09:00:40 AM

If Ash could never see another vomit puddle in a random stairwell, that would be the day.

He narrowly misses it, leaping high onto a chrome green-graffiti step. "That's Golzine," Ash mutters into his phone. He can hear the banker on the other side of the line typing away. "G-O-L-Z-I-N-E. The first three numbers for Social Security are 112…"

A professionally aloof voice rings into Ash's ear. "Will the transfer be all today, Mr. Golzine?"

"That's all," he replies. "Have a nice day."

Ash heads back in the stairwell. The further up the old, abandoned building, the more it's like a skeleton of concrete and wooden rafters. Dead and forgotten over time. He's only comfortable going up to the third or fourth floor.

The Fly, in his usual threads, hovers around Eiji and the table of weapons. Combat knives and grenades. Ammunition. Two opened cases of pistols and rifles and shotguns. Ash glances in around the corner. His dealer doesn't know how to hide in all-white suit. A polyester and ruby button-up in caramel yellow polka dots. A belted fedora. Ruby-red tinted sunglasses.

"Yeah, okay…" The Fly nods, measuring Eiji's right wrist to his palm. "Okay. See this bad boy, hmm?" He presents a baffled Eiji with an expensive and long barreled handgun. "We could have you try the Beretta 9mm with the 15-round magazine—"

"For the last time, Eiji's not trying anything," Ash says curtly, walking in.

"Come on, Ash." The Fly grins hard. The twin, gold studs in his brown ears flash. "Don't spoil the fun," he says. "The man needs a reliable weapon. Everybody does. You're really gonna let him go into a gunfight _without_ a gun?"

Ash's expression doesn't change from sullen.

"He has me."

The Fly winks at a flustered Eiji. "I'll get you next time."

It's near impossible to deter The Fly once he's got his heart set on a challenge. Nobody escapes The Fly.

"You paid up, Ash?"

"The money's in your account. You know I'm good for it."

The Fly eyes the new banking statement with a deep, content hum. "Pleasure doing business," he announces, tilting his fedora and making his exit. Without anyone caring to notice, The Fly lowers his wrist-sleeve over a hint of red tattooed lines.

Ash makes a grouchy noise, coming to the table.

"He's only trying to help."

Eiji's voice blares in.

Ash hesitates from pocketing one of the knives, giving Eiji a doubtful stare.

"You want a gun now? Is that it?"

"No." Eiji says honestly. "But it might be better for everyone if I did, and I know— _I know, Ash_ —you don't want me to use a gun. I appreciate you looking out for me. I just want to protect you like you've protected me. I _should_ be able to protect you."

Ash lets out a groan, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His head hangs down.

"Don't let The Fly get into your head," Ash scoffs. "He wants to sell you something, not be your buddy."

Eiji's face tightens.

"Ash, you're not listening to me…"

It's not that. It's not that at all. Ash doesn't want Eiji's hands forever bloodied like his. He doesn't want Eiji to _regret_ anything he does while with Ash. He doesn't want to _lose_ Eiji. One of the unloaded guns cradles in Ash's opened palm.

"See this?"

Ash holds it between them.

"This is only meant to kill. Killing changes you. It doesn't change you for the _BETTER_." Despite the emptiness in his face, Ash's jade-green eyes blaze with obvious frustration. "So, no—it's not better for _EVERYONE_ if you get a gun, Eiji."

Eiji's jaw sets with determination.

"Nobody is making me do anything," he reminds Ash. "If I pull the trigger… it'll be because _I_ chose to. Not you, Ash."

Ash shakes his head. "You shouldn't have to pull it at all."

"If I wanted to leave New York, I would have. Ibe-san has tried to convince me to go home to Japan so many times." Ash ignores him, thrusting shut one of the silvered carrying cases. "He could get me a plane ticket, Ash… but where would that leave me?" Eiji asks, dismayed and gesturing out helplessly. "Worrying every second about you and not being able to do anything about it?"

"I'm not your responsibility…"

"You're my friend. Of course you are," Eiji says indignantly. "What kind of friend would I be if I walked away? You're _still_ in danger." Ash glances to Eiji's stubborn expression, trying to not be angry. Trying to not fight Eiji, but he's losing. He always loses.

"… And what kind of friend lets you stay when it's dangerous?" Ash monotones.

"Then leave with me."

His heart stutters when Eiji touches the side of Ash's face benevolently. Eiji's dark eyes wide and bright.

_It's all Ash wants._

He doesn't need a life-changing revolution to know this. Eiji has already changed him.

Ash wants to leave with Eiji.

Only the two of them.

He wants to go, right now, and not know what to expect in the best way possible. Where it's safe and there's no need for a gun in Ash's hands. He wants to go to Japan. To where Eiji lives and get a place with him in Izumo. Meet Eiji's family for the first time. He and Eiji could live a normal life and drink until it's late, and cry, and laugh, and wake up every morning together.

_(Nine of his men are dead.)_

Ash's fingers tremble, prying away Eiji's right hand from his cheek.

"You gotta be _kidding me_ if you think… everything bad following me stays behind in Manhattan…"

The crestfallen look on Eiji feels like a punch into Ash's stomach.

"… Give up and do nothing is your answer?" Eiji whispers.

"You said it yourself, Eiji." Ash spreads out the length of his arms, grinning humorlessly. "You don't have to be here if you don't like it," he retorts, banging one of the silvered gun cases onto the dirtied floor. Ash snaps the other case shut.

Dark, thunderous clouds rumble overhead.

Ash hears Eiji inhale sharply and walk in the opposite direction.

"Eiji, where are you going?" Ash mutters, turning around.

"I don't know." Eiji sounds more hoarse and passionless than he's ever been. Visibly glistening tears stream down Eiji's face, and Ash hates himself for it. For all of it. He doesn't move away from the table regardless.

"Be safe while I'm gone, Ash."

Droplets of rain fall. Ash feels a numbness instead of how they drip onto pale gold eyelashes.

Lightning crackles.

He stands there in complete silence before one of Ash's hands strikes and knocks the last silvered case. Ash crashes to the ground with it.

*

> 2018 — May 18th — 11:09:11 PM

Walking through the halls of Golzine mansion… it can feel like a maze.

Aslan supposes this makes him _the rat_.

He swallows down a yawn, padding down another hallway like a restless zombie. Can't sleep. Aslan glances over the maplewood trimming on the walls and ceiling. Long, squared-off lines of gold paint and indigo along the floor mouldings.

Father must be asleep. He's guarded at the top floor by seven different men.

Aslan's bare feet shuffle against the soft magenta carpeting. He glimpses pale gold and a flash of red.

"… Mom?" Aslan mumbles, his lips feeling heavy and stiff.

There's nothing down the corridor, into the first floor or the entrance-parlor. Aslan looks around in a panic, and then he finally sees the pale gold around the corner. Leading him. He wheezes, running right towards the iron-bolted basement door.

Shut and locked.

"Crap," Aslan breathes, digging into his trousers. His paper clips. He needs them now.

Within several minutes, the basement door unlocks and unlatches.

Everything jams as soon as Aslan's hand tries it.

_"Crap!"_

Aslan grunts, throwing up his hands and kicking fiercely against the iron-and-steel door. He delivers one more kick, with a frightening amount of strength, rattling it apart. A burst of invisible, cold air hits Aslan's stunned expression.

Did… did he do that…?

He narrows his eyes, stepping in and peering from the top of the basement stairs.

The pale gold. It's there.

"Mom," Aslan says loudly, hurrying down.

It's all darkness until Aslan reaches what appears to be an underground, cobblestone-like pathway. It winds and goes deeper.

He doesn't see a soul down here.

None of Father's guards or his staff.

Yellow lantern-light keeps the darkness from swallowing Aslan up. It doesn't feel right down here. His lungs feel strained for air.

Aslan gulps, rubbing over his chest.

He finds a set of antique-looking and rusty doors. Out of uneasiness, Aslan creaks them open. Two gigantic stakes in the ground surrounded by chains. All of the room within is rounded and made of browning, mildewy bricks.

 _SET ME FREE_ …

 _I'M IN SO MUCH PAIN_ …

Aslan winces, clutching the side of his head.

That voice…

Something… something bad happened down here…

(Why does it look like a torture chamber?)

"Oh my darling… oh my darling…" Aslan sings to himself to calm down. "Oh my darling Clementine…"

He…

He needs to get out of here.

*

Aslan loses track of time. Unsure of how long he's been down here.

The cobblestones all look the same. He turns around in a circle or two, gulping with a tightened chest, peering around as if lost. Aslan doesn't understand. How is his father's basement even more like a maze than the Golzine mansion itself?

He reaches what looks like an automated door with a keypad.

Aslan taps the pound key, watching as the numbers rearrange. He knows the code. He knows the numbers to get in, and doesn't know how he knows, but Aslan is tired of being confused and scared and wants to _get out of this hellhole_.

His fingers tap out **3-5-8-4** in a sequence.

The door whirs open.

_Guns?_

Aslan sneaks into a low-lit vault.

Is… this… where Father keeps his armory? Smuggled guns? Has… Aslan been here before…?

Footsteps.

Footsteps pound over his head.

They're coming.

_(Who is?)_

Aslan clutches his head with both hands, wailing out when a throbbing agony flares behind his eyes. This _isn't_ a migraine.

He stares up.

Bluebeard stares from the vault's opening, unblinking and grinning maniacally. He's massive and dressed in rags and with a bright red handkerchief fitted over his receding hairline. One of those black eye patch on his left eye. A fake blue beard.

_No…_

Aslan's nightmare creeps inside. His expression dark and murderous. Pupils glow a sinister red. His veiny, massive hands long to wrap around Aslan's throat and kill him. Aslan feels himself moving instinctively, reaching for a nearby firearm and one of the bullet-cartridges. He jams them together expertly, pulling back the safety and aiming. Aslan's bright green eyes focus.

_It doesn't feel like him…_

Aslan screams in a high-pitched fury, shooting at Bluebeard and keeps shooting until he hears a whimper.

He blinks.

Isabella quivers in a pool of her own blood, moaning faintly.

Aslan's eyes blur with tears.

"No!" he yells, snapping forward and crawling to her. "No! _No! NO!"_

She's cough-gagging, her apron drenched in red. Her skin greying as more blood leaks onto the cobblestones. Aslan doesn't know what to do. His hands hover frantically over her without touching. He can't even say her name.

"No… no, _n-no_ …"

Isabella's fingers grip onto his, lowering Aslan's hand to her vibrantly red tattoo. The flowers and all of their stems and leaves. She traces Aslan's forefinger over the lines. Isabella, coughing up fluid-red, presses Aslan's other hand to his heart.

She… wants him to know something…?

What is she trying to say?

Aslan doesn't know. He doesn't.

He killed someone.

_He…_

Aslan sobs and howls out when the light fades from her brown, smiling eyes. More footsteps.

_(They're coming.)_

The pounding thuds in Aslan's skull.

His limbs stiffen.

Aslan falls over, his body giving into uncontrollable and rhythmical muscle-seizes. His mouth locked in a silent scream. Aslan's eyes roll back to their whites as he arches his back in. He's already lose consciousness.

In his mind, Aslan feels like he's underwater and drowning alone. Currents of electricity wrecking him. Voices muffling away.

He sees a long yellow fish with black spots swimming away in the darkness. A ripe banana fish.

Aslan's heart stutters to a halt.

He's dying.

_He's…_

_screaming, screaming until all of the pressured water bloats in him, Ash's lungs choking_   
_his lips pinkish-blue and he's screaming in rage, in fear and in hatred_   
_"Would you—"_

_screaming, screaming into the night air and he's crashing, it's all crashing_   
_down around him, Blaze's dying moans creep into his hearing_   
_"Would you—"_

_screaming, screaming and kicking wildly as Foxx's men haul him out of the bedroom_   
_and Eiji lies covered in blood red, and Ash thrashes to get free_   
_"Would you ever—"_

*

> 2017 — August 13th — 05:00:53 AM

The screams for Eiji fade off into the distance.

One of the mercenaries remain. He languidly smokes a cigarette through his black ski mask, exhaling and pushing aside the overturned record player with his boot. Glass crunches under his weight. Flecks of burning red ash litters the hardwood floor.

"No more fight left in you?" William Joseph Green says conversationally.

His dark eyes stare apathetically over Eiji lying on his back. He's half-dressed, shivering and paled-white. The stumps of Eiji's fingers oozing dark red blood, Ash's white tee coiling them. Eiji's neck and face dribbled with moisture, streaking out red.

"I suppose it does not matter, little one," he drawls in his heavy French accent. "Hmm?"

William Joseph Green leans over and put out his cigarette against the hardwood. Close, so close that Eiji feels the searing heat.

_"You will die screaming…"_

"Like hell!" Sing calls out, emerging from the shadows.

He runs in and dodges a bullet, the black-smoke graphic hoodie flapping. Sing's weapon casts out, wrapping to William Joseph Green's neck until the Flying Dragon Fang cuts flesh. Sing pulls it taut with a ferocious look. Eyes bulge in their sockets.

Shorter comes into view with his gun raised.

His eyes wander in alarm over the condo's ruins… shelves ransacked and its books scattered and torn… couches gutted with their fluff spewing… vases shattered… armchairs and tables kicked over… papers ripped apart…

"What in the hell…?" Shorter mumbles.

Shorter's eyes finally land on Eiji. He's rigid and clutching weakly at his injury, his head lolling sideways.

_"Oh god…"_

He drops to his knees beside Eiji, placing a hand on his abdomen and hearing a thin, low whimper from Eiji's too-pale lips.

"Eiji, no. Stay with me," Shorter insists, clumsily palming the side of Eiji's face. "Hey. Hey, stay with me."

Sing retracts his bloodied wire-cable and gazes around as if confused, leaving their enemy dead.

"Where's Ash?"

Shorter looks up, his eyes watering behind his dark sunglasses.

"Eiji…" he murmurs down to him, becoming terrified. "Ash… we need to find Ash, Eiji…"

The other man slowly shakes his head. Eiji mouths out Ash's name, his eyelids drooping open. Tears leak freely.

Shorter grimaces, roaring out to the empty bedroom.

_"Ash! ASHHHHHHH!"_

Sing appears to be listening for any intruders, mercenary or non-mercenary.

He crouches down with them and pats on Shorter's back for his leader's attention. "Shorter, we need to get Eiji out before it's too late. Ash isn't here." When Shorter doesn't move, quietly crying and trembling with rage, Sing's voice strains into pleading. "Shorter… we gotta go…"

Shorter nods after a moment, gasping for air. His hand clenches onto the fabric of Sing's hoodie.

"Help me with him," he rasps, positioning himself and grasping beneath Eiji's armpit.

Sing does the same, as gingerly as he can, wincing as Eiji cries out and slumps. They lift him upright. "We're here for you, Eiji," Shorter mutters, teeth gritting as Eiji's head leans onto him. "Nobody's getting away with this. I swear."

"For Ash…"

*

> 2017 — September 5th — 10:56:10 PM

Blood loss could have killed him. Or the shock.

Or the multiple infections from his wounds. They spread down through Eiji's right hand, hastening another round of life-saving surgery.

(There's no sign of his fingers. Not that it matters.)

Eiji passed in and out of consciousness in his recovery room. No one could see him for a week unless it was the police.

He's lethargic and mute. The doctors say Eiji's condition is likely temporary.

Ibe hears about this. He wrings his hands, calling Eiji's mother and father to let them know what happened. Bones and Kong visit, trying to cheer him up, with Alex hanging out by the doorway as if guarding it. It startles one of the nurses, and then she shoos them out for being disruptive.

Sing comes by, once or twice a week. He doesn't talk. Eiji prefers no one talking right now. Sing lounges in a hospital chair by Eiji's bed, folding his hands against his mouth and observing a bleary-eyed Eiji who stares purposely out the window.

Shorter asks questions.

He keeps _asking questions_ and ruffling his purple mohawk and getting infuriated when Eii doesn't respond.

Or show that Eiji's happy or upset to see him.

Eventually, Shorter fumes out. He sometimes kneels next to Eiji's bed, quivering like he's fighting back tears. That's when Eiji wants to comfort him. Touch Shorter's head and reassure him.

There's no more pole vaulting. Eiji can't hold a camera like he used to, or lift someone, or do simple tasks.

Ash is gone too.

That hurts more than any physical pain Eiji experiences.

He keeps it to himself.

In the middle of the night, Eiji finds himself restless. His hospital bed-light illuminates above him.

They've hooked him up to an IV when Eiji picks at his meals and doesn't drink enough water. One of the nurses and Ibe supervised Eiji when he got into a soft, white tee and white hospital pants, assisting him when needed. He's newly bandaged, his left arm cradling his right to himself.

Something sounds like metal clinking.

Eiji looks out into the darkness of his hospital room, letting his sight adjust.

It's a person standing there, facing him.

A stranger.

He has no idea how they got in, but Eiji has a feeling the metallic sound was to alert him. They're in all-black clothing except for the red, plastic face mask. Like from a Halloween store.

Eiji opens his mouth, trying to speak.

"Where… is Ash?"

No answer.

"What do you… want?" he asks. Eiji's unused vocal chords strain.

_"That depends what you can provide for us."_

The new voice muffles.

Eiji's throat clenches up before he can speak again.

"I… don't have… anything you want…"

 _"You think you are incomplete without it, don't you?"_ The stranger raises a hand to a distrustful Eiji, flexing their black-gloved fingers and clutching at nothing. _"The truth is hard to acknowledge. You don't need your right hand for what we have planned."_

"We…?"

They step closer, revealing their wrist.

Eiji straightens up against his pillows, gawking. A red pomegranate tattoo? The people Ash was searching for?

"Why did you attack him…?" he accuses. Eiji's heart rate spikes on his monitor.

_"We didn't."_

"Dino…"

_"Not one of ours."_

Eiji frowns. "How do I know… you're not part of what he's done…?"

The stranger silently tilts their head. With the mask on, it seems exaggerated and comical.

"Do you know where Ash is… or not…?"

 _"You want a reason to trust us,"_ the stranger declares. They allow themselves fully into the light of Eiji's hospital bed, slipping off the plastic mask without hesitation. Every hard line on Eiji's face slacks in astonishment. "Can we trust you, Eiji Okumura?"

_For Ash._

He nods grimly, resting a hand on his bandaged forearm.

"Yes."

*


End file.
